


What Was Left

by kloud



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Slow Burn, awkward everything, tags will be updated as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-27 11:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 73,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7616482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kloud/pseuds/kloud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>I hoped it was a dream. The explosion, everything. I woke to the sky torn asunder, to fragments of what I thought the world was. Everything is in uproar. People are scared and confused. As of now, everything is at an unstable peace.</em>
</p><p>  <em>The reports I hear from people are disorganized. There was a fiend, who is now a hero. They are whispering about him—a lot about him.</em></p><p>  <em>The healer tells me I need more rest. But if I don't write, I'm afraid I will lose my mind. I need to get words onto paper, or they will fester in my mind. And I'm afraid they will tear me apart. There are some questions that I'm afraid to hear the answers to. Questions that I am not yet ready to ask myself.</em></p><p>  <em>What has happened to the world?</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End of a Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I can not thank [Caitticat](http://psychoticcupcake.tumblr.com/) enough for helping me edit this! I owe so much to her--thank you, again.
> 
> This work mostly revolves around Cyrlen pining for Dorian, and being an absolute doof about it. There is pain (gotta get all that angst) and comfort. There will be a lot of awkward pining and fluff, so, get ready.
> 
> By the way, good luck.

Wind shot across the open expanse of rubble, biting at his skin. A quiet ache had started since the moment he had woken up in chains, with an alien pain in the palm of his hand. He had been trying not to think of it—think of  _ this.  _ Scattered in broken fragments on the ground lay what was left of the temple. Snow drifted quietly towards the broken floor, upset by the biting wind. The tips of his ears were long frozen, and he welcomed the numbness.

Cyrlen hoped it would spread. His eyes flickered across the wreckage. Bodies, or what was left of them, stood frozen in the last seconds of their demise. His heart shuddered. Swallowing, he stepped forwards, a piece of debris crunching under his foot. The Temple of Sacred Ashes remained only as pieces of stone and lost lives. 

So  _ many  _ lives... He took another step forward and felt his breath catch. The inevitable lay before him with no way around it. No other way except  _ this— _ to think of  _ this.  _ Cyrlen pushed forward, hearing hushed muttering behind him. Voices of strangers that fought alongside him. Strangers whose names he could barely remember. A strong jaw, a hairy chest, and a shiny head.

Another sharp wind cut through the air, ruffling his armor as he stepped further across the ruins. The breach stood so close to them now, its haunting green tethers reaching up and tearing apart the sky. A matching green light pulsed from his hand, and an aching burn shot pain up his arm. It settled in his shoulder and tensed his neck. 

His chest felt hollow. Clenching his teeth, he forced himself forward with a sudden burst of determination to get through the mess of people. Not people,  _ corpses.  _ Something crunched beneath his foot. Cyrlen stopped. With a quiet breath, he stepped back to peer at what lay victim to his boot. Gold winked up at him in the light of the breach. He felt knives in his chest when he crouched, gently lifting a pendant up and off the ground. Tears burnt the back of his eyes, and he let out a soft breath of disbelief. 

Tenderly, he cradled the pendant in his hands and studied the scuffed gold. The jewel in the middle must have cracked in the blast, and the leather that once held it had disappeared. Burned, probably. Cyrlen took in a small, shaky breath and shook his head. A hand rested on his shoulder, stern and gentle. "We have to keep going.”

Cyrlen took in a shaky breath and lifted his gaze to hers. He didn't expect to see kindness, or even worry. In her eyes, he saw strength. Something learned over years of hardship. His pain bubbled inside of him, burning his insides. He ached to tell her, to tell  _ anyone. _

_ You see this? Long ago, I found it while traveling, caught in a river between two rocks. The water was so cold that by the time I finally freed it, I couldn't feel my fingers or toes and shook miserably for nearly an hour. I kept it with me, for a while. Until my brother was born. I gave it to him. It's his. He'll want it back. _

Tears filled his eyes and he blinked to force them back, peering away from the woman, away from the ruins, from the breach, from pain. "H-He used to cry," Cyrlen whispered, his voice breaking underneath the weight of loss. "A-And cry, for no reason. I didn't know what to do. I finally held him, and looked into his eyes... beautiful, big green eyes. Th-they landed on," he held the pendant out for her, his vision blurring. "This. He grabbed it, and held it in his tiny little hands. And he stopped crying."

Something flickered in the woman's face—surprise? Sorrow? Annoyance? Cyrlen didn't know which. Shakily, he stood and forced a deep breath into his lungs. His eyes fell to the pendant as unanswerable questions festered into his mind. Questions that he would consider later, when it was safe to cry. Safe to bleed out his pain and sorrow. Safe and alone. His brows pulled together and he gently ran his thumb across the surface of the broken jewel. Beside him, the woman stood and took in a breath. He could feel her impatience like a probing wave.

"I suppose we should go," Cyrlen said thickly, so she wouldn't have to. He pocketed the pendant and lowered his head. Without another word, he pushed himself forward and further into what was left of the temple. He wished numbness would take over him, and swallow him whole. But every new step throbbed with pain, every single breath ached, told him it was going to be a long, long time before he ever felt "numb." 

Quiet footsteps shuffled behind him. Their questioning gazes gently pressed against his back. They were nothing but strangers to him, a means to an end. The gold he collected sat heavily in the small purse hanging on his belt, and it held little comfort. Even if it were enough for him to survive on his own, he would have to consider running from shemlen authority, to escape a trial that wasn't his own. The ruined walls barely stood on their own around him, shielding him as he followed what once was a short hallway. Debris cracked under the soles of his unfamiliar shoes and clattered away when he accidentally kicked them.

After this, he would. Somewhere. The mark in his hand burned, and another flare shot pain up his arm. His shoulder ached with painful numbness. Before him opened a large, crystallized rift. Its dark crystals shifted and changed by each passing second.

Cyrlen's heart dropped. The breach conquered the sky, enormous and hungry. He could feel its power warming his skin, and weakening his spine. There were more mutters behind him, something of a familiar voice. Someone spoke to him. 

Blinking, he cast the bald mage a glance. Eyes were on him, waiting. Cyrlen felt his heart beating in his palm, and managed a nod. "I'll try. I'm not so certain as to how I will reach it-"

"No," the mage interrupted quietly. "This rift is the first. And it is the key." His calculating eyes turned to the breach and he nodded, as if affirming his own hypothesis. "Seal it, and perhaps seal the breach."

"Then let's find a way down. And be careful," the Seeker demanded.

Cyrlen's chest seized and he nodded stiffly. There was a possibility he wasn't going to see the other end of this. Soldiers began to line the open walls, weapons pointed towards the floor. The breach shifted before him, eerie with dark promises. He reached a hand to brush the pendant in his pocket. Its familiar edges comforted him. Did he  _ want  _ to make it through? His brother waited for him, on the other end of somewhere. "Find a way down, you say?" Cyrlen muttered.

He stepped up to the rail, peering at it for a moment before pulled himself on top of it. "Carefully," the woman added, voice thick with warning. "You break your neck and-"

" _ Now is the hour of our victory."  _ A deep voice rumbled through what was left of the temple. Cyrlen's breath caught.  _ "Bring forth the sacrifice."  _

The Seeker spoke with thick surprise, "What are we hearing?"

"At a guess: the person who created the breach," the bald mage answered.

Cyrlen carefully slid off the railing, falling onto a broken piece of flooring on the other side. He used the rubble to slide down to the rift. Angry mutters sounded behind him, and he swiftly ignored them. His eyes raised to the breach. Another careful step down, and he was on the ground. Another echoey voice filled the air.

_ "Someone help me!" _

Lifting his staff, Cyrlen used it to shield himself against the bright light that flashed from the breach. Then he heard it.  _ "What is going on here?"  _ His own voice. It echoed against the ruined walls, filling the dead air. Breath sputtering, he stared dumbfounded at the breach.

"You!" The Seeker's voice cut across the air and she came running for him. "You  _ were  _ there! The Divine-"

"I don't," shaking his head, Cyrlen lifted his widening eyes towards her. "I don't remember any of this." 

The woman stared at him, her face filled with a mix of confusion, anger, and...  _ awe.  _ Something whispered in her expression, something akin to revelation. Revelation of what, Cyrlen didn't know. 

But he felt uncomfortable under that stare.

 

* * *

 

_ I hoped it was a dream. The explosion, everything. I woke to the sky torn asunder, to fragments of what I thought the world was. Everything is in uproar. People are scared and confused. As of now, everything is at an unstable peace. _

_ The reports I hear from people are disorganized. There was a fiend, who is now a hero. They are whispering about him—a lot about him.  _

_ The healer tells me I need more rest. But if I don't write, I'm afraid I will lose my mind. I need to get words onto paper, or they will fester in my mind. And I'm afraid they will tear me apart. There are some questions that I'm afraid to hear the answers to. Questions that I am not yet ready to ask myself. _

_ What has happened to the world? _

 

* * *

 

Light danced across his eyelids, gently stirring him. Pain echoed in the hollow husk of his body, whispering to him that he lived. Despite everything. With a soft breath, he clenched his hand. Something bit into his palm. Cracking his eyes open, Cyrlen shakily pulled his hand into view. The pendant sat in his hand, glinting more vibrantly underneath the candlelight. It looked as if it had been scrubbed clean. 

Cyrlen felt a pressure on the back of his eyes and carefully propped himself up onto his elbow. His body ached at the simple movement. Blankets that were pulled up to his shoulders fell away, baring his dark skin. The pendant sat heavily in his hand, and his vision began to blur. So he  _ had  _ lived.

A soft, choked breath left him, and he curled around the piece of old gold. He pressed his face against his hands and let out a broken whimper. His chest echoed in pain with a raw wound that no magic could soothe.

_ "I'll be right back."  _ Cyrlen remembered that much, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. Wide eyes had flickered up towards him, filled with worry and curiosity.  _ Right back,  _ Cyrlen had promised. 

Tears pressed against his eyelids, stuffing his nose. He let out a small, choked breath and rapidly blinked his eyes. Which one of those frozen corpses, he wondered, was his brother? 

A door opened. Cyrlen took in a quick breath and blinked back his tears. He sat up and looked around him. A small room hosted him, quaint decorations on the wall and even a cage in the far corner. He spotted his armor folded on a desk, cleaned by the looks of it. His eyes finally fell towards his guest, a young elf. Sitting up, Cyrlen pulled the blanket up to cover his chest with his cheeks heating.

Shock filled her eyes and the box she carried dropped, clattering to the floor. Cyrlen winced at the crash. "You—you're awake!" The nervous elf stammered. "Oh! Oh, my, I..." 

"There's no need to be afraid," Cyrlen soothed, his brows pulling together. He shifted on the bed, ignoring the pain that skittered across his sleeping muscles. "There's no need, I won't-"

The elf dropped to the floor, her head bowed to him. "I beg your forgiveness and blessing; I am but a humble servant." She hesitated before adding, "You're back in Haven, my lord. You're all anyone has talked about for the last three days."

Cyrlen studied her for a moment, and hesitantly asked, "Talked of what?" 

"I-I am certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you've awakened. She said, 'At once.'" The elf carefully rose to her feet. Her wide eyes flickered towards him, reminding him for a moment of his brother, before she dipped her head. "Oh, I am sorry—'At once,' she said! I must-" Turning on her heel, she darted out of the room. A frown pulled Cyrlen's lips.

He didn't understand why she acted so frightened—so  _ anxious.  _ Sighing, he muttered to himself, "Well. Maybe the 'lady' terrifies her." That sounded likely. He pulled the blanket off of himself and creakily swung his legs off the edge of the bed. His muscles and joints tingled from disuse. A long breath fled through his lungs and he carefully pushed himself up and off the bed.

Cyrlen winced at the needles of pain that ran down his body. He carefully stepped across the floor and made his way towards his armor. By the time he pulled the last bit of it on, his body had only barely awoken. He glanced around the empty hut. No one had arrived to check on him. Muscles tightening with unease, he stepped toward the door. He paused with his hand hovering just above the knob.

On the other side of the door, what would he find? A noose? An angry mob? A sigh parted his lips. Fearing the inevitable was just plain stupid. He pulled the door open and stepped out into the brightness of the cold day. Shielding his eyes against the sun, he squinted blindly ahead of him. He heard the quiet rumble of a crowd, seconds before the image unfolded before him. 

A sea of people stood before the small hut, with soldiers standing guard and keeping the crowd at bay. Cyrlen felt his heart pound in disbelief. “That’s him! The Herald!” A voice cried. Ears twitching, Cyrlen crept forward. The pathway before him lead away from any escape, only deeper into the sea of people. 

His skin flushed with heat underneath all the eyes. Whispers hit his ears, slapping against his eardrums. “That’s the Herald? Do you really think he was sent to us? An  _ elf? _ ”

“I heard he was supposed to close the breach.”

Cyrlen’s eyes flew towards the sky. His breath stuttered as disappointment crashed through him. He failed. What would they want from him now? His hand ached with the hollow possibilities. He followed the path with little to no choice, fighting to keep his spine straight and his chin proud. Two large wooden doors unfolded in front of him, and his legs shook with unease.

The Chantry held a small audience of people in robes. They looked at him as if he pretended to be far more important than he was. Their muttering chafed him, like wool itching his skin. Breathing deeply, Cyrlen resigned to his fate and pushed against the large wooden doors. They opened to an empty hallway, lined with a red carpet and lit by orange candlelight. A voice echoed off the stone walls, sharp and annoyed. His heart panged. Alone, he walked along the carpet, breathing too loudly. The Seeker’s sharp voice cut across what Cyrlen recognized as the Chancellor’s voice. 

The two argued. Cyrlen felt his hands slick with sweat and clenched them into fists; he yearned to pull out the pendant, safely tucked away in his pocket, but he didn’t want to make a habit of it. He stepped up to another wooden door and swung it open. Voices cut off immediately, attention landing on him like bees to a bright flower. Cheeks flushing, Cyrlen stepped inside and surveyed the room. A large table sat in the middle of the room, with few other decorations. The candles in the room flickered, making shadows dance across semi-familiar faces. Before Cyrlen could take note of anything else, the Chancellor called, “Chain him! I want him prepared for travel to the capital for trial.”

“Disregard that, and leave us,” the strong-jawed woman said, her eyes sitting on Cyrlen. He swallowed.

“You’re walking a dangerous line, Seeker,” the Chancellor hissed between his teeth, his eyes cutting towards her. 

“The breach is still a threat, and we will not ignore it,” Cassandra snapped, her voice thick like a bear’s growl.

Clamping his jaw shut, Cyrlen chose to remain silent. The Chancellor turned his attention towards the other two in the room, his words cutting through the air with venom. Except, Cyrlen couldn’t hear a word of them. He could understand the growls, hisses, and snaps, just not the words. They escaped him, and he didn’t care to try and listen. His mind wandered, floating outside of his body. A ghost heat brushed over his skin. He needed more rest. 

Something slammed onto the table, snapping Cyrlen to the present. His eyes fell to a book on the table, thick and old. “Do you see what this is, Chancellor? A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.” She charged the Chancellor, her face pulled into tight scrutiny. “We will close the breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or without your approval.”

The Chancellor stared slack-jawed, dumfounded. After a moment’s hesitation, he left the room without another word.

Cyrlen quietly stepped over to the book and pulled it towards him. His eyes studied the cover, and he wordlessly traced the symbol on top of it. “We aren’t ready,” the other woman spoke, her voice soft and lilting. “We have no leader, no numbers. And now, no Chantry support.”

“But we have no choice. We must act now,” Cassandra’s eyes sat on Cyrlen once again. “With you at our side.”

Startled, Cyrlen stared up at her. He searched her gaze, peering into her calculating eyes. Questions bubbled in his mind, ways to stall his answer and to buy him time. He sat on the sharp edge of a sword, forced to choose to fall forwards or backwards. The mark on his hand thrummed quietly, reminding him of its presence and of what he failed to do. Cyrlen clenched his fist. If Maeron were still here, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He would have wanted to help.

People have never been his favorite, not when it came to interactions and conversation. But he treasured them. He had always watched from the sidelines, fearing the day that it was time for him to step up and lead his clan. Then he was sent away, off to watch two shemlen groups squabble over a disagreement. His brother followed him, of course. The two were inseparable. But here he was, by himself in the first time in more than a decade. With a quiet breath, Cyrlen stirred his voice and said, “If you’re truly trying to restore order…”

“That is the plan,” the other woman said quickly, hope softening her sharp face.

“Help us fix this, before it’s too late,” Cassandra turned to him and held out a hand.

Cyrlen swallowed and stepped towards her. He nodded, stiffly, and took her hand in his own. His knees felt weak, and the pendant in his pocket felt heavy. He had forgotten what it was like, to live life alone. But he supposed it started with a single step at a time. Alone or not, he had nothing else. 

He shook her hand.

 

* * *

 

_ The Herald of Andraste. I’m not sure what that means, exactly. It seems as if the Herald is Dalish, too. A lot of people are uncertain about that. They are whispering, and I can feel their slander against my hot ears. I am not sure what to think of it either. I am not sure about the Inquisition, or its Herald. They tell me he’s tall, and frightening. That he wears a face of stone and hardly cracks a smile. I am not sure what this Inquisition will bring, but I am here. They want to “fix” things, or so they say—they want to fix the hole on the sky. _

_ I can feel it in the air, a slight shift in the wind. Things are changing. And I don’t know if that is good or bad. _

_ Last I heard, the Inquisition plans to move onto the Hinterlands. I am being sent there to scout for them. I’m afraid. I’ve never killed anyone before.  _

_ At least, never on purpose. _

 

* * *

 

“I sense magical energy ahead. The mages can’t be far,” Solas said quietly. A soft breeze picked up, sliding through the gentle hills and pressing against their backs. Cyrlen breathed out through his nose and tried to ignore the stabbing pain in his right foot, and the stiffening of templar’s blood on his robes.

“Oh really?” Cyrlen said dryly. He was about five hours past having any patience. “What made you think that?” His eyes lifted towards the scene before him. “Was it the tall ice spires, or perhaps those robed apostates patrolling the front of the cave—you know. The one with the entrance covered with that fire barrier?” 

Varric let out a soft snort behind Cyrlen, and muffled a comment. The bald mage shot him an irritated glance. Jaw clenching, Cyrlen trained his eyes forward. His muscles sighed, weary and worn. The templar camp had been more than easy to find. It felt like a slaughter. His eyes fell to the lines he had carved into this staff. The number was growing. 

“We will need ice magic to combat the fire barrier,” Solas spoke as if Cyrlen hadn’t said a thing at all.

Guilt pinched his insides. Cyrlen leaned his head against his staff and counted the group patrolling outside of the cave. “Solas, you will need to take care of that—but after the battle. I only want to handle one group at a time. Put up a barrier as soon as they rally toward us. Varric, stay back. You know where to hit them. Cassandra, keep them off of us.” A deep breath filled his lungs and he straightened, his eyes brushing over Cassandra. “Unless, you have any other ideas.”

“No,” the Seeker frowned, her eyes pointed forward. “I will distract them.”

“Just make sure not to burn any of our asses,” Varric said, wryly.

With a soft nod, Cyrlen started forward. “Let’s go.” Underneath the warm light of the sun, he summoned his magic. His muscles whispered with fatigue and promised him that he wouldn’t be at his full wit. He watched the others out of the corner of his eye. Their faces held tight determination. At what point, he wondered, would they tell him it’s time to quit?

He wasn’t any better than this needless war. Two groups fought another, because they were frightened. Cyrlen fought numbly, rashly. Without cause for thought. Killing wasn’t an answer he wanted to resort to. But they couldn’t sit the opposing sides down and tell them to play nicely. That had been tried once, and it ended in his brother’s death. Clenching his jaw, Cyrlen launched himself forward. He pulled energy through his staff and shot a fiery ball towards a mage.

The battle began. Magic surged into the air, sparking his skin. He felt a barrier engulf him, a second before an ice shot crashed into it. Cyrlen flickered a grateful glance towards Solas, who gave a small nod before turning his attention towards the enemy.

Cassandra let out a battle cry, slamming her shield onto one of the apostates. All attention drawn to her. Taking his chance, Cyrlen surged magic through his staff with a silent spell and directed it towards the feet of the enemy mages. Runes inscribed into the ground and-

An explosion. The mages cried out in pain, and Cyrlen felt it in his heart. Clenching his jaw, he shot another ball of fire, and another, while he focused his magic for another fire attack. A single apostate screamed, set afire by the explosion. They rushed away from the others, their agony rising in octaves as they fell in a desperate attempt to snuff the fire.

The barrier dropped. Cyrlen felt naked air on his skin and let out a shaky breath. Cassandra cut down another apostate, her face pulled into tight concentration. Even from the distance, Cyrlen could see the sweat that licked her brow. She seemed fine. Cyrlen surveyed the battle, his muscles tight with unease. There was a powerful shift in the air. A magic trap.

Cyrlen spotted two apostates, hands held out in concentration. Then his eyes whipped towards the trap. Icy ruins carved the ground, a powerful spell. His breath caught. “Solas!” Cyrlen cried out in warning, and time slowed down. The bald mage had his eyes trained on an enemy, ice bursts shooting from his wooden staff. He stepped aside, to dodge an incoming attack. His foot landed on the edge of the rune’s circle.

Magic rippled through the battlefield, its coolness draining Cyrlen’s warmth. The power tossed Solas aside, and icy fragments cut through the air. Clenching his teeth, Cyrlen haphazardly launched another spell, right at the feet of the apostates. After a minor second of charge, fire cascaded into the air. Cries filled the air. Cyrlen shot into the fiery mess, aiming for the figures in the dancing flames. An arrow whipped across the air, landing dead center of a mage’s chest. Then the air clapped with another knee-quivering explosion.

“Check Chuckles over there,” Varric shouted. “I got you covered.”

Shakily, Cyrlen scrambled across the frozen pond towards a limp form. Ice wrapped around the mage’s foot, and blood streaked the area around him. Cold air cut into Cyrlen’s lungs, chilling his insides. He slid to a stop beside the mage and dropped to his knees. Leaning over Solas, Cyrlen tried to rip his last potion free from his belt. The strap securing the damn thing wouldn’t budge. A cold hand landed on his own, stilling him.

“Calm,” Solas spoke, voice rough but not weak. “I’m fine, if a bit dazed.” He shakily pushed himself up and peered at the ice that encased his foot. “Cassandra needs another barrier.” His eyes flickered up to Cyrlen.

Relief poured over Cyrlen and he passed his potion to the elf. He pushed himself up onto his feet and turned his attention towards the warrior. With a deep breath, he sent a spell over to her. The barrier wrapped around her, and her face eased from the tight strain that it held moments before. Whirling through the air, she slammed her sword against the temple of another apostate. Archaic bolts pelted the barrier.

Cyrlen shot fire across the ragged plane, his eyes admonishing the few of those who stood. Arrows and magic flashed like deadly jewels, and Cassandra’s shouts dominated the din. In moments, they were the only ones left standing. Apostates littered the ground, either groaning and rolling, or unmoving. A chill settled in Cyrlen’s skin.

The bald elf stepped up beside him, his eyes narrowed on the fire barrier. He stood solid and determined. A bruise marred his cheek, and no doubt more whispered up his legs and side. “A moment’s rest,” Solas said in a quiet question.

With a small breath, Cyrlen nodded. “How is everyone fairing?” Their faces held an aura of fatigue. His gut twisted. And here he thought he stopped being selfish years ago. The dwarf and Seeker made their way towards him. Cassandra leaned against an ice spire, her arms folded across her chest. She watched Cyrlen with a tight gaze. Cyrlen turned most of his attention towards scavenging. There wasn’t much. Only a handful of coins, and a few potential weapons for the Inquisition. He felt eyes on the back of his head.

“They know we’re here,” Cassandra pointed out. Sighing softly, Cyrlen glanced towards the fiery barrier. “We will have to be smart.”

Cyrlen turned towards them, his chest whispering with uncertainty. He searched their faces, before his eyes flitted over Solas. The mage had a few tears in his robe, with a few splatters of blood. “Perhaps it would be best to pull back,” Cyrlen said. He straightened and turned his eyes towards Cassandra. All eyes fell on him. The ache in his foot pounded like a second heartbeat up his leg. “We can resupply, get some rest.”

The Seeker watched him critically, her sharp eyes fighting to peer into his mind. He was a puzzle to her, that much was clear. Not even Cyrlen fully understood himself, at the moment. He felt like a teenager charging off of hormones. Especially at Haven.  _ “A pleasure to meet you,”  _ he had said, just about as friendly as a snarling mabari before the advisors. And he had managed a smile—one that only made them wince. His  _ pleasantries  _ weren’t up to par at the moment. Breathing through his nose, Cyrlen shifted his weight off his foot and leaned against his staff. 

“Oh sure,” Varric rolled his shoulders. “Pull back, and give  _ them  _ time to reconnaissance too.” 

Through her teeth, Cassandra growled disdainfully, “Varric’s right.” She surveyed the two potions on her belt before searching everyone else. “How many do we have?”

“I have two,” Solas responded quietly, his attention on a tear in his robe.

“After elf-boy here charged those templars,” Varric flashed Cyrlen a humored glance, “I have none.” 

A guilty breath left Cyrlen and he looked over at Cassandra. “All of us have four then.” He frowned and looked over his team. “We’re this far only using half. But we’re tired, and injured.” Trying not to look at Solas, Cyrlen forced his eyes to Bianca. “They know their best chances are in that cave—we won’t be able to draw them out.”

“And we’ve no way of knowing how many reside within,” Solas pointed out.

Cyrlen searched their faces. They waited. With a start, he realized they were waiting for him to make a decision. Swallowing, Cyrlen raised a brow. “Are all of you willing another battle?”

“Bianca’s not complaining,” Varric smiled.

“Better to stop all this nonsense so that the refugees can be safe,” the Seeker shifted and glanced up at him. “So long as you have a plan.”

Cold wind pressed against them, and Cyrlen’s skin prickled. His eyes were drawn towards the barrier once again. He swallowed. “Solas will take the barrier down. Varric, you shoot explosives in there as soon as you can. I will put a barrier on us. As soon as there is sign of trouble, pull back.”

Cassandra stepped in front of Cyrlen, searching his eyes. Baffled, Cyrlen stared back at her. The tips of his ears began to burn from her critical eye. He could smell a soft hint of sweat and leather. And an even stronger pinch of blood. The crimson glint painted her armor, covering the Inquisition symbol on her chest. “Are you ready for this?” Cassandra asked. The question carried weight.

Heat brushed over his skin and he studied her expression.  _ This.  _ What was “this?” The battle, or the Inquisition as a whole? Taking in a determined breath, Cyrlen nodded. “It’s too late to back down now.”

Something shifted in Cassandra’s eyes, and she stepped away. She continued to watch him closely. A puzzle—Cyrlen could feel her trying to put him back together. But he was June’s knot. All the pieces weren’t there. They had been mauled, torn, and abused into new shapes. There would be no  _ putting back together.  _ With a soft breath, Cyrlen gave her sad smile and said, “Save the refugees, and we might have enough people whispering about us for Val Royeaux.”

 

* * *

_ More people have joined, so many with the stories of the Herald. I spoke to a young woman who told me she saw the Herald in battle, and spoke of him in awe. She told me Andraste’s very hand was guiding him, and that I wouldn’t understand until I met him. But I won’t meet him. I’ve been sent out again. Apparently, I am a good scout. I am back in the Hinterlands. This place is enormous, awesome in size. And absolutely aggravating. _

_ Harding is amusing company. She is determined to make me laugh, and it reminds me of my cousins. I wonder how they are doing. I wonder if they even know of our absence. Harding told me the bears are too scarce here. The others laughed. _

_ I don’t get it. _

 

* * *

Snow definitely was among the least favorite of Cyrlen’s choice weather. The cold bit his exposed ears, numbing the precious tips. He frowned grumpily out at the frozen lake that sat in front of quaint, little Haven. The breach’s light danced across the surface of the ice, hauntingly beautiful. A cold draft made him shiver as he turned towards the Inquisition soldiers.

Sparks and clanks filled the air. The mere sound alone filled Cyrlen’s stomach with dread. Quietly, he stepped away from the lake and limped toward the tents. His eyes flickered over to Cassandra. She stood with her arms crossed, and her eyes narrowed on a dummy. Hesitantly, Cyrlen limped to her, using his staff as a cane. “If you’re looking for the Commander, he isn’t here.” Cassandra said, her eyes grazing him.

Cyrlen hesitated and felt his cheeks fill with heat. The curly-haired man might make him weak in the knees, but he had hoped it wasn’t obvious. Cullen had a face to admire, and admire Cyrlen did. “I…” His brows came together and he looked around. “Why?” 

The Seeker shifted on her feet and sighed. “A runner came for him.” She looked like she wanted to say more. Her eyes lifted to him and she said, quietly, “It… occurs to me that I don’t know much about you.” Her voice thick with curiosity.

Cyrlen shifted his hold on his staff, running his thumb over the marks carved into it. Carefully, he asked, “What would you like to know?”

Most of anything everyone already knew. He was Dalish, from clan Lavellan. His little brother died at the Conclave, and he was a grieving confused mess. Sighing through his nose, he lifted his right foot off the ground to nurse it. He still remembered the templar, the size of a horse, who had stomped on it. 

“I’m not sure.” An exasperated huff left Cassandra and she rubbed the side of her neck. She looked uncomfortable and out of place, as if this was a conversation she had been rehearsing inside of her head and was now second-guessing the lines she wrote out for herself. “Where are you from?”

Cyrlen hesitated. That much was obvious. He doubted the Seeker wouldn’t have already run across that little bit of information. Dubiously, he said, “My clan never stayed in one place for long.” The pendant found its way into his hand and he ran his thumb across the surface. His brows pulled together. “We’ve gone through the Free Marches. Among other places.” 

The Seeker shifted on her feet and stared thoughtfully at him. Her face relaxed, if a mere centimeter. Something he said met with her approval. “I am told some members of your clan might still be alive.” Her face tightened for a moment, her eyes falling to the pendant. “Do you intend to go back?”

Pain prickled in his chest. Swallowing, Cyrlen’s hand clenched around the jewel in his hand. She had been thinking of it, of his broken mumbling that day, the way he choked with the stories of his brother—his pain. She had been right there, watching him. Cyrlen curled his shoulders and took in a small breath. It felt like a blade cut into his throat “Home was with…” Deflated, Cyrlen shook his head. “It is wherever I am.” 

Cassandra’s voice softened. “That’s how I feel now, after years of tending to business for the Divine.” She paused, her hand lifting as if she wanted to say more. To give him more than just cold words of a stranger. 

Stepping away, Cyrlen dipped his head. “Thank you, for… the conversation. I am going to go check in with everyone. We should be leaving within a few days.”

Her eyes narrowed on him, whispering of something she wished she could say. Dipping her head, she said, “…another time, then.”

Cyrlen retreated. He held the pendant to his chest, walking faster than what the healers advised him. Behind him, the sound of clashing swords receded. He stepped through the large doors of Haven and slowed to a quiet limp. Another cold wind raced across the ground, shuffling his short hair. 

Everywhere he walked, he felt questioning eyes on him. Cassandra wasn’t the only one trying to figure him out. He clenched his jaw and quietly pocketed the pendant. Her questions reminded him of the hollow ache in his chest. Brows pulling together, Cyrlen let out a breath that felt like needles cutting into his lungs. There were so many people around him. He was their topic of conversation, the mystery that held their attention.

And he had never felt so alone in his life. Cyrlen quietly trudged up the stairs, nursing his foot. He thought of his brother’s smile, trying to form it in his mind. The image felt fuzzy, and he regretted not memorizing that smile. Somewhere, someone laughed. It soothed him, somehow. 

The fact that someone  _ could  _ laugh was promising. Something brushed against his ears, a faint noise. Frowning, Cyrlen headed towards Haven’s chantry. The noise grew. Fighting. Quickening his pace, he limped up more steps and rounded the corner. Two large groups of people opposed another, growling and spitting. Without even hearing their words, Cyrlen could guess the dispute. Mages shouted at templars, and templars accused them. 

Cullen stood in the middle, his authoritative voice cut across the din and warmed Cyrlen’s chest. His breath stuttered. The Commander’s voice softened him and made his spine into butter. Soft, fluffy, warm butter. Cyrlen carefully stepped up towards the crowd, hearing one last biting insult before the two groups disbanded. 

They walked away with their fur still spiked up in defense. Cullen might have ordered them to play nice, but that wasn’t going to change much when it came to comradery. Sighing through his nose, Cyrlen headed towards the Commander. His eyes passed over a mildly familiar older male, who charged Cullen like a rabid puppy. “I am curious as to how your Inquisition and Herald,” he said the word like it was a swear, “will restore order, as promised.” 

A sigh left Cullen and he rolled his shoulders. When he spoke, his Adam’s apple bobbed. The thick fur on his shoulders must keep him warm, Cyrlen thought. There was minor stubble on the Commander’s throat, along with his chin. Cyrlen watched his lips move as he spoke, alluring and-

“The rebel Inquisition and its  _ so-called  _ ‘Herald of Andraste?” The Chancellor shot Cyrlen an unimpressed glance. “I think not.” 

Blinking, Cyrlen’s cheeks became hot. He hadn’t been paying attention to their conversation. Clearing his throat, he shrugged and quickly said, “It seems as functional as any young family-“

“Ha! A family with dangerous spells and heresy!” The Chancellor barked. 

Stifling a sigh, Cyrlen pointed towards the annoying old man and raised a brow at Cullen. “Why is he here?”

Amusement flickered in Cullen’s eyes, and a small smile whispered on his lips. “He’s toothless.” The Chancellor let out an undignified snort. Shifting on his feet, Cullen continued. “It’s a good chance to know what to expect.” 

Heart fluttering, Cyrlen gave a quiet smile of his own. Part of him wanted to ask more—if just to have Cullen explain more to him. Though, sense told him not to bother the Commander any further. Eyes darting to the old man, before flickering around them, Cyrlen said wryly, “Don’t let anyone riot when we’re gone.”

With a smile, Cullen said, “Don’t worry. The walls will still be standing when you return.” His face sobered for a moment and he frowned. “I hope.”

 

* * *

 

_ As I’ve heard, the Herald has made his way to speak to some important people, to try and get help for the hole in the sky. I watch the breach at night, when I can’t sleep. The thing glows like a second moon, a hazardous beauty. Could a single man truly hold the power to mend the sky? _

_ Harding tells me that all the rifts I’ve run across can be closed by this man, this Herald. I feel sympathy for him. How would it feel, to have the world’s weight on one’s shoulders? I’ve never had that before. I’ve always had someone right there, holding my hand. But not anymore. So many people have lost loved ones. _

_ I wish this man luck. We will all need it. _

 

_ Also, I get the joke about the bears now. _


	2. Seeing His First Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's basically just: Meet the hunkie dunkie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, seriously. Cat is my lifeline over here. She's honestly the best editor/beta reader ever and I can't ever thank her enough. So get ready for a thank you in just about every single chapter. 
> 
> You should go check out her blog, and send her gracious messages for being amazing or just existing. 
> 
> And if you ever need any sentence formed in a way Dorian would say it, [go check her out.](http://psychoticcupcake.tumblr.com/)

Val Royeaux held warmer nights than Haven. The sky stretched out above them, shimmering with constellations. Everything was asleep in this part of the city. Lights were out, leaving the moon and a few lit sconces to brighten the night. A soundless breeze whispered through the alleys, brushing against Cyrlen's warm skin. He leaned against the cool wall with a drink in hand, warmed by a discrete heating spell.

The others remained hushed. Cyrlen carried the mood, mute and annoyed. He sighed through his nose and pursed his lips thoughtfully, "Madame de Fer joined the Inquisition." Shifting on his feet, he frowned. "There was some minor trouble at the... gathering." He squinted into his drink, trying to remember the correct word. "But there shouldn't be any follow up problems."

"What kind of trouble?" Cassandra raised a brow dubiously.

A quaint smile lifted Cyrlen's lips and he shook his head. "Yet another noble-somebody telling me how preposterous the Inquisition is. Claimed we were heretics, looking to take over the world." Shifting on his feet, he sighed and said, "You really shouldn't send me to those things."

"And let all those people miss out on your impeccable charm?" Varric said with a smile, his eyes dancing with humor.

Half-heartedly rolling his eyes, Cyrlen said. "I'm sure I've charmed all the Orlesians. I've converted them all into my very own army of admirers."

Varric laughed and said, "I'll believe it when I see it."

"What are we doing here, again?" Cassandra cut in.

"The red notes," Cyrlen sipped the rest of his drink and slipped the cup into his bag. He stepped away from the wall and nodded. "It’s almost time. I suppose we should find out what they mean."

"Right as I was getting used to living in an alley," Varric mused.

A faint snort left Cyrlen. Wordlessly, he walked onward, along the poorly lit alleys. The team shuffled behind him. His irritated silence still weighed down the night. If he collected coin for every time someone accused him of blasphemy and evil intentions, he would rich by the day’s end. Though, what irritated him most was the fact the templars deemed it fit to abuse an older woman. He felt another stir of anger and barely paid attention. The alley widened to a large area, splattered with a few crates, and-

A barrier flew up around him, its magic pricking his skin. Shouts reigned across the open area, and he barely caught onto _"the Inquisition"_ before arrows flew their way. "Well, I suppose I know what ' _Bring swords'_ means," Cyrlen called, throwing a ball of fire at one of the mercenaries before taking his staff in hand.

"And here I was hoping for a tea party," Varric released an explosive arrow, and it landed at the feet of two of the mercenaries before its power lightly shook the ground.

"Why would you wish such a thing?" Solas muttered, stepping up beside Cyrlen. His magic pressed through the air and a spell laid at the feet of the archer. Within moments, the only arrows flying through the air came from Bianca.

Fighting a small smile, Cyrlen drew magic through his wooden staff. He threw a spell towards the last mercenary. "I wouldn’t be so sure," he said as the large fireball hit the mercenary square in the face. "My Orlesian fans might enjoy that."

Cassandra slammed her sword down on the mercenary, and they fell to the ground. With a sigh, she shot an irritated glance towards them. "I am glad all of you are having a good time."

"Hey, it's not every day we get the Herald to crack a joke. We're making _progress,_ Seeker." The dwarf smiled and and shifted on his feet. Cassandra didn't seem impressed.

“Progress?” Cyrlen walked across the open area, eying the bodies on the ground. “In what? Making me funny? What a shame. Here I thought I was hilarious. No wonder why no one laughs.” He headed towards two large doors marked by a lit up sconce. He pushed them open and stepped through. A ball of fire shot straight towards him. Narrowly, Cyrlen ducked, then stepped aside as _another_ sphere of fire slid by.

“That’s one way to greet someone,” Varric grumbled.

Wryly, Solas muttered, “Perhaps they don’t like tea parties, either.”

"The Herald of Andraste," a thick accent greeted him on the other side of the two doors. Cyrlen frowned. A man in a mask stood before him, beginning his own monologue. "How much did you expend to find me? A lot, I would guess. It must have cost the Inquisition immeasurably."

"I don't know who you are," Cyrlen said, casting the Seeker a confused glance. She shrugged unhelpfully.

Thickly, the man spat, "You don't fool me! I am too important for this to be an accident! My efforts-"

An arrow's soft whistle sliced the air, a second before someone let out a cry. The wounded guard fell to their knees with a loud clang, before falling face-first into the ground. A woman stood behind them, blonde hair cropped short, with a strung bow in her hand. Her face pulled tightly in disdain and she said, "Just say 'What'."

"What is the me-" the Orlesian began, voice overflowing with anger. An arrow dove through the air, and cut off the rest of the man's words. He collapsed, dead, to the ground.

The woman let out a disgusted noise and headed towards the dead male, swinging her bow in the air. "Squishy one, but you heard me right? Just say 'What'." Her eyes lifted to Cyrlen, and he crossed the stones towards her, hesitant. "Rich tits always try for more than they deserve." She turned away from him and yanked the arrow out of the dead man's mouth. "Blah, blah, _blah!_ Obey me, arrow in my face." She stepped away from the corpse and turned towards him again, her brows pulled together. "Well, you seemed to follow the notes well enough." She watched him for a moment. " _And_ you're an elf." The woman groaned. "Well. I hope you're not too _elfie._ I mean, it's all good, innit? The important thing is that you glow. You're the Herald thingie."

"Glow?" Cyrlen echoed. The woman spoke so fast it was hard to catch onto what she was saying. "Some... say that," he raised a brow. "And who are you? And what is this about?" He looked around them, at the corpses that littered the ground.

"No idea!" The elf smiled. She rambled on again, and Cyrlen barely caught onto "my people" and "Inquisition." Her energy reminded him of his brother when he was young—always firing out questions that Cyrlen could barely answer in time before he moved on to a new interest. "The name's Sera." She said, her eyes sparking with fierce energy. More words poured from her mouth before she said, "There are reinforcements. But don't worry. Someone tipped me the equipment shed." With a childish smirk, the elf gleefully said, "They've got no breeches."

"No... no what?" Cyrlen asked, baffled.

"No breeches! You heard me," Sera called as she rushed off, bow and arrow in hand.

"Why didn't you take their _weapons?_ " Cyrlen called. The "reinforcements" awkwardly stumbled down the walkways, swords in hand. His skin rushed with second-hand embarrassment. "No breeches" indeed. Disbelief coursed through him as naked legs scrambled across the stone.

Across the way, he heard Sera's laugh-filled voice, "Because _no breeches!_ " Her laughter echoed across the walls.

Smiling, Cyrlen shot a few half-hearted fireballs towards the guards. It took only a few spells and cries from Sera, " _Right in the apples!"_ before they were all down for the count. His lips were glued into a smile, and he couldn't wipe it off his cheeks. He walked over to Sera as soon as the last mercenary hit the floor, his own eyes dancing with amusement. "Friends really pulled off with that tip. No breeches!" She laughed.

The last of his will broke, and Cyrlen laughed. The sound of it ripped away the cobwebs in his chest, and filled him with warmth. He said, "I would hate to be those poor blokes."

With a shrilling laugh, Sera grinned and said, "No—you're the Herald. The one that glows." She sobered for a moment and regarded him. "You're a strange one. I'd like to join."

"Join? As in, the Inquisition?" Cyrlen said, half surprised. He shifted on his feet and said, "Well, I would appreciate some explanations first. As long as I get to keep my pants where they are."

The elf's nose scrunched up as she laughed once again. "You can keep 'em, Sir Herald. For now."

 

* * *

 

_The sky looks sad. Or perhaps it's just me. Nights when I can't sleep I step outside the tent and stare up at the stars. The breach lightens the sky. I wonder if people across Thedas can see it. Are there those who are unaware of its existence? A few lucky ones, living their lives normally, unaffected by what is happening?_

_A lot is going on. A lot of it I don't understand. The templars have dropped the Chantry, and people are scared and confused. So many people whisper of the Herald. It's like hearing of a common legend, especially when walking through the refugee camp._

_A hunter tells tales of how the Herald seeked out the fattest of rams to feed the people. Another soldier tells me how he battled many apostates to get warm blankets for the people. A woman tells of how the Herald seeked out her own child to save her life._

_There are so many people the Herald has touched._

_Harding tells me that he's intimidating, but she can tell he has a heart._

_In shadow of the growing power of the Inquisition, for the sake of the people, I pray that he does, too._

 

* * *

 

The candles flickered in their sconces, flickering with his uncertainty. He stood alone in the middle corridor, arms wrapped around himself. The soft voices of prayers brushed against his hot ears. Things were happening too fast. Cyrlen took in a deep breath and stepped blindly down the hallway. He headed down the stairs, stepping lightly till he reached the bottom step. They would have to make a decision.

Cyrlen felt like the middle knot of a rope in a game of tug-of-war, being yanked back and forth as he was pulled tighter and tighter. He saw an alcove and slid into its veiled safety. The air in the underground dungeon felt cool and damp, untouched by the outside chill. Darkness whispered in the corners, granting Cyrlen the cover he yearned for. He slid down against the cold stone and held his face in his hands.

The Commander wanted the templars. To him, magic needed to be controlled. Templars needed to tame it, should the thing grow too powerful and fight back.

Josephine and Leliana both saw reason within the mages. There was danger, as there always was. But magic could be just as dangerous as a sword. Or even a knife, tipped with poison.

 _“Well, seems as if all of you will have to decide on_ something _,”_ Cyrlen had snapped. Idleness usually didn’t irk him. It was the fact that he was the knot in the middle of everything. His breath cut short every single time he thought of the breach, and every single glance marred his insides. He had thought that being First was unnerving.

People were beginning to look towards him, for his decisions. They analyzed his movements and deeds. Sighing, Cyrlen rubbed his hands over his face and massaged his temples. Far off he heard the door to the dungeon creak open. Pressing his face against his knees, Cyrlen wrapped his arms around his head. His insides felt like they were going to spill out and run from him.

Careful footsteps echoed off the stone. Cyrlen exhaled and squeezed his eyes shut. He slid the pendant out of his pocket and gently brushed over the gold with his thumb. Stiffly, he rose to his feet and stepped towards the entrance of the alcove. The pendant glinted underneath the faint light. “H-Herald?” The quiet call came from down the hallway. “Are… are you-”

“Josephine,” Cyrlen smiled kindly and stepped into view. He eyed her and said, “Sorry, I got distracted by some of the books-”

The diplomat rushed across the stone, her eyebrows pulled in worry. “Master Lavellan, I’ve been meaning to speak with you.” She stopped in front of him, pressing her lips together. Without her usual writing board, she looked naked.

“Did you need something?” Cyrlen hesitated. His hold on the pendant tightened and its sharp edges bit into his skin.

“I…” Josephine straightened and seeked an answer in his eyes. “I should like to know if anyone here has treated you unkindly, Herald.” She wavered for a moment, and added, “For being an elf.”

The question threw Cyrlen off guard. He tilted his head thoughtfully, regarding her with a mellow smile. “I can deal with a few whispers and sideways looks.”

Feathers ruffled, Josephine muttered under her breath. She moved her weight off one foot onto the other. Her hands danced through the air with her annoyance. Voice strengthening, she looked Cyrlen in the eye and said, “Stories of ‘Wild Dalish Elves’ have grown even more outrageous as people learn of you.”

Icy worry dipped into his flesh. Cyrlen shifted on his feet and frowned. “What of the fact that fire bursts from my fingertips? Or that my hand glows green?” He lifted his hand, and the second heartbeat in his palm pulsed. A green light flickered across the shadows.

“Depends on which way the wind blows.” Josephine broke off into another spout, muttering on about Andraste and some other points that Cyrlen failed to catch onto. Her speech dithered, and she fingered her bottom lip. “Does… it hurt?”

“This?” Cyrlen peered at the mark curiously. He twisted his hand back and forth, and wondered if he should tell her. Tell her that the mark woke him up at night, brightening the entire room. That sometimes it ached to move his arm, to clench his hand, or do something so simple as hold his weapon. He wondered if it was worth it to tell her he was afraid to use magic with his hand, in case the mark decided to act up instead of a spell. A whispered breath filled his lungs. “It’s some getting used to.” He gave her an assuring smile, one that he had given his brother when both were terrified of the shemlen hunters who were just a few feet from discovering them.

“I suppose there’s a lot for you to… get used to, Master Lavellan,” Josephine said, her eyes softened. “I just hope that you’re not-”

“Thank you, for worrying.” Cyrlen spoke gently, he pocketed the pendant. “I’m… handling things. And with the rumors, it’s going to be difficult to sway people. They fear what they do not know, and fill in the holes of what they do not understand.”

“I will see what I can do to contain the slander. It may help if… I knew more about how you and your clan lived,” Josephine folded her hands over another, peering at him curiously.

“Well, Lady Josephine, if you have a moment,” Cyrlen smiled and held out an arm for her. “We can take a short walk?”

“Oh,” Josephine said. “I am-”

“Back to your dark little chamber upstairs,” Cyrlen assured. “It won’t be long.”

With a pleased smile, Josephine hooked her arm around his and said, “Why thank you, Master Lavellan. I always prefer an escort back to my little corner dungeon. What would you like to discuss?”

Cyrlen lightly shook his head and lead her away from his lonely alcove. “Hm, where to start? Let’s see…” He stared thoughtfully ahead of him. “I loved the forest. Trees stretched above our heads, a gentle canopy. The greenery calmed me, along with nature’s singing. We-” Pain dripped into his lungs like molten metal. “My brother and I, we would travel around the forest with another, and sit and watch the halla run around. It was… peaceful.”

“You make it sound idyllic. You must miss them,” Josephine whispered, her brows pressed in sympathy. “Your clan.”

“Ah,” Cyrlen smiled, though it was more of a reflex. “Well, I mostly kept to myself. I’m sure you’ve noticed that my people skills are quite extraordinary because of it.”

The ambassador laughed, “Oh yes, I’m always so impressed.” She studied him for a few quiet moments and smiled gently. Patting his forearm, Josephine said, “Tell me more of it. About your clan.”

 

* * *

 

_These pages aren’t surviving the weather. This is my third time trying to write this, and I will admit: the rain isn’t quite so enjoyable on my own. The Storm Coast lives up to its name. Though, I do not envy the Herald. He still has a lot of work to do in the Hinterlands._

_We’re here for the Wardens, but there hasn’t been much sign of them. Scouts keep disappearing. I’m scared._

_Last night, the others were sharing stories of their lives before the breach. I was asked for mine. But I couldn’t speak. I panicked. Everyone has their sad stories and find solace in sharing theirs. I can’t share mine._

_I’m terrified that it will solidify things, if I say it aloud. If I write it._

 

* * *

 

Sweat dripped down the side of his face, and slid down his neck. Breathing heavily, Cyrlen stared wide-eyed at the rift that had been open moments before. "What was that?" He asked no one in particular. His skin prickled with unease. A tightening in his gut told him that something was off.

"It seems as if the rift was altering time. Which is... troubling." Solas stated, his brows furrowed.

Sera spat on the ground. "Just great, innit? Not only do we have to put up with all these little holies, but here they are up and getting even more weirder."

"It's finally over!" A guard exclaimed, rushing towards the gates of Redcliffe. "Thank the Maker!" She breathed out a sigh of relief and called, "Open the gates!"

Shifting on his feet, Cyrlen frowned at the large doors. He passed his staff from one hand to the other and flashed a questioning glance towards Solas. The elf looked just as dumbfounded as he was. A breeze rushed through the air. It held some bite to it, chilling Cyrlen's sweaty skin. The gates to Redcliffe opened and the guard reassumed her position.

"I wonder if anyone else has seen this development," Cyrlen whirled his staff through the air before progressing forward. A myriad of people awaited within the village. Soldiers who prayed, people who sat along the walls with their heads bowed while muttering about the war. Cyrlen felt his skin tighten with unease—they were whispering about him. He stepped through the gates and glanced past the ivy-grown walls and tried to peer deeper into Redcliffe. Lush greenery colored the old village, thriving on the sides of the road and even on the older buildings.

Before Cyrlen could progress much further, one of the Inquisition's agents jogged lightly up to him. Their brows were pulled in tight worry. "We've told everyone you're here. But... I'll have you know, no one was expecting you."

Cyrlen felt his stomach twist with unease. His hand tightened on the staff and he frowned. "No one?"

The agent shook their head and peered around them. "We've set up a place for you in the local tavern for a meeting. I would tread lightly, my lord."

A sigh left Cyrlen and he watched the agent quietly crawl away. He turned to look back at his team members and said, "I don't like this. None of it."

Sera snorted and hopped afront to walk beside him. "Well, Mr. Lordy Pants," She folded her fingers behind her head and hummed. "We could always go get some horses."

Flinching, Cyrlen winced and asked, "Did Cassandra tell you to remind me?" He withheld a sigh and headed down the worn road. On the side of the road, a young man whispered of nightmares to what could have been his mother. His eyes were widened with uncertainty. The look reminded Cyrlen of memories that he had to banish back to his unconsciousness.

The bright sun, unmarred by clouds, brightened up the old village. A run down windmill sat atop of another hill, overlooking a castle. Sunlight shined down on the many people that filled the road. Cyrlen clenched his staff in search for comfort. Their eyes fell his way. "Oi, you're in your elfie head again."

Blinking Cyrlen glanced towards the blonde and gave her a sheepish smile. "Sorry, Sera."

"I asked what's so bad about horses? Yeah, they smell of arse and all, like-" Sera waved her hand in front of her nose. " _Whewie,_ stinkie! But they're helpful, yeah?"

Cyrlen smiled patiently. "Fairly helpful. We'll make our way to the horses soon enough. I just thought it might be helpful to check out Redcliffe, to get our bearings and to understand both sides." He walked along the road, guessing where they might find the tavern. People grew more dense. Their topic of conversation never changed. Gut tightening, Cyrlen scowled. "I can't believe Cassandra got you to listen to her."

"You wouldn't happen to be afraid of horses, are you?" Blackwall's voice was thick with amusement.

A blush filled Cyrlen's cheeks and he let out a cough. "Afraid? That's putting it strongly." He spotted the tavern and quickened his pace towards it. Sera giggled behind him. "It's merely... being cautious."

"Cautious, is it?" Blackwall smiled.

Stepping up to the tavern's door, Cyrlen pointed a finger towards the Warden. "Yes," he said, voice thick with warning. The top of his head felt too warm, either from the sun or their teasing. His eyes flickered past them, towards the people of Redcliffe. A few still spoke behind raised hands, their eyes drawn to Cyrlen.

Even with two other elves at his side, he felt like a window among doors. His ears were a beacon, and not to mention his face. As delicate the vallaslin were, they often distracted people. Sighing through his nose, he pushed the tavern door open. Immediately, he was hit with the smell of sweat and something acrid. He scrunched his nose and stepped inside.

Behind him, Sera snorted and said, "It will be great, won't it?" She nudged the Warden's side with her elbow. "When Big Miss drags his arse to help her get some ponies!"

The tavern lacked patrons, completely empty if not for Fiona who stood in the middle of the room. Her brows were pulled together as Cyrlen stepped inside, studying him. He stepped further into the building and heard the door click close behind him. "Welcome Inquisition," Fiona's accent sharpened her words. "What brings you here?"

Cyrlen felt his gut tighten in unease. "You invited us here, after meeting in Val Royeaux." He stopped in front of her and crossed his arms.

"You must be mistaken," the woman shook her head, confusion dipping her brow. "I haven't been in Val Royeaux since the Conclave."

Frowning, Cyrlen said, "Then your duplicate decided to play some fancy tricks on the both of us. I am quite certain it was you in Val Royeaux."

Fiona's brows lifted and she shook her head. "My duplicate? There must be magic at work. But why would anyone..." Her face hardened in resolve and she shook her head. "It doesn't matter now. The situation has changed. The free mages have already... pledged themselves to the Tevinter Imperium."

"I understand that you are afraid," Solas cut in, his brows pulled together. "But you deserve better than being slaves to Tevinter."

The woman paused, and quickly said, "As one indentured to the magistrate, I no longer have the power to negotiate with you."

"You're ignoring the breach?" Cyrlen said, slapped with disbelief. The damned thing plagued his dreams and woke him in a cold sweat, gasping and grasping for reality. "It threatens-"

"Our problems were immediate," Fiona interrupted. "The breach is... a matter that can be solved at another time. This bargain may not be the best choice, but it was the only choice we had." Her brows came together and she lifted her chin. "We are losing this war. I needed to save as many people as I could."

The tavern's door swung open, surprising Cyrlen. He turned on his heel as a man dressed in Tevinter wear sauntered into the room. "Welcome friends!" He said with a calculating smile. "I apologize that I did not greet you earlier."

Immediately, Cyrlen felt another twist in his gut. The man had bad news written all over him. "Inquisition, I would like to introduce you to Magister Gereon Alexius." Fiona motioned towards him and stepped away.

"The southern mages are under my authority," the Magister smiled. Something flickered in his eyes, something akin to gloating. "And you are the survivor," he said, it wasn't so much of a question. His eyes studied Cyrlen and he looked him up and down. "The one from the Fade? Interesting."

"You're a long way from home," Cyrlen said, his voice sharp. He clenched his jaw and wished he had more people skills, a way to act more at ease. "The timing is awfully..."

"Lucky?" Blackwall offered. "Beneficial?"

"Fortuitous," Cyrlen settled, a meaningless smile pulling his lips.

The Magister raised a brow and said, "As I gather, you're quite a bit aways from home too, aren't you? Come. Let us discuss negotiations." He beckoned Cyrlen with a flick of his wrist and walked towards a table. "Felix! Will you send for a scribe, please? Pardon my manners! This is my son Felix, friends."

Choking down on his frustration, Cyrlen took a seat across from the Magister. This man used ‘friends’ in the same tone someone would say _‘pigs’._ He gave the young man a glance, just in time to catch his eye. Felix gave a small smile and bowed to Cylren, seconds before he turned and walked away without another word. He watched the young man retreat.

"...endeavor. Ambitious, indeed."

Heat coursed through Cyrlen and warmed his cheeks. The man had been saying something. Clearing his throat, he leaned back in his chair and flashed him a quick smile. "Well, there's a huge hole in sky. We can't really afford to dream small."

"We will have to-" Alexius began.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cyrlen saw the young man approaching again. He limped towards them, eyes unfocused. In seconds, Cyrlen was on his feet—just as the young man fell. Cyrlen scrambled to catch him and grunted under the added weight.

"Felix!" The Magister cried.

Moist breath warmed Cyrlen's neck, as something was shoved into his belt pocket. He blinked as the young man stood up, giving his father a weak glance. He eyed Cyrlen out of the corner of his eye. "My lord, I am so sorry. Please forgive me."

"Felix, are you alright?" Alexius was at his side, gently placing a hand on his back.

"I'm fine," the young man assured, turning away from Cyrlen.

"Friends, I am sorry but I've matters to attend to. We must continue this another time. Come, Felix. Let us fetch your powders—Fiona, I require your assistance back at the castle." Alexius quickly scrambled from the room, brows pulled together in worry.

"I don't mean to trouble everyone," Felix said quietly, his eyes passing over Cyrlen's once again before he left.

The tavern emptied with everyone except for Cyrlen and his company. He quietly pulled out what was stuffed in his belt. A note. Frowning at the scrawl, he read it aloud, "Come to the Chantry. You're in danger." His eyes flickered up to the others.

Blackwall scratched his beard, peering curiously down at the note. His brows were furrowed in thought. "Well, it's certainly a development."

"It could be a trap," Cyrlen sighed.

"Oh, come on!" Sera stomped. "Let's do _something,_ " she exasperated.

"Well," Solas remarked, a sly smile whispering on his lips. "It would be either the Chantry or the horses."  

 

* * *

 

The Chantry stood in front of them, old and towering. Midday light cast onto the church's stone, which glistened from old dew. Moss and ivy clung onto the sides of the building, coloring the stones. Cyrlen sighed as a soft breeze ruffled his short hair. He cast a glance around them and settled his eyes onto his team. "Are we certain that we are ready for this?"

Sera hopped on her toes, her eyes sweeping back and forth. "Come _on._ "

Shaking his head, Cyrlen pushed open the wooden doors and stepped inside. A bright green light greeted him immediately and blinded him. He threw up a hand and heard the doors shut behind him.

"Bloody tits!" Sera barked.

The room unfolded before him, and he heard a grunt from across the room. Magic sparked through the air, causing the fine hairs on his skin to stick up. Cyrlen blinked. A rift took over the middle of the Chantry, and a dark-haired man stood near it, battling a demon. He hit the thing with the blunt edge of his weapon, and the creature flopped to the ground.

Breathing heavily, the man glanced over at them. A charming smile pulled at the corner of his lips and he breathlessly said, "Good! You're finally here. Now help me close this, would you?" The request almost sounded more like a veiled demand, and the brightness in the man's eyes told Cyrlen he didn't have much of choice. But it wasn't threatening. His heart pulled when the man's eyes settled on him.

They weren't given much time for introductions before demons decided it was time to pour out of the rift. Clenching his jaw, Cyrlen shouted, "Solas, barrier! Sera, stay back this time, would you? Blackwall-"

"I got it, I got it," the Warden called as he ran into the fray of green light, just a few feet out of Solas' reach for the barrier. _Damn it._

Demons rushed around the Chantry, floating green wisps and tall green chittering spirits. Blackwall let out a war cry, calling to their attention. Grunting, Cyrlen shot magic at one of the larger beasts, infusing a sly spell on the ground. Fire burst through the air and the creature let out an otherworldly shriek that chilled Cyrlen's spine.

Magic fried the air, targeting the demons. One by one, the demons were plucked from their existence. The rift silenced itself and charged. Cyrlen could feel its hum against his warm skin. "Are we fine on potions?" He called, eyes watching the rift closely.

Before anyone could answer him, more demons surged through the rift. His heart stuttered and he wished that he had learned that new spell before this. The Warden stood a few feet back from them, eyes narrowed on the rift with sword in one hand and shield on his arm. The demons rose from their spawns and immediately seeked to tear apart the world.

Cyrlen choked. There were more. Magic filled the room, as thick as molasses. He shot an electric thread, and it landed on the nearest demon before branching off and hitting the others. Blackwall screamed another war cry, slamming his sword down onto the nearest spirit.

Sweat gathered on Cyrlen's forehead, and he strained for another spell. He collected the energy, fueling it into his staff. Out of the corner of his eye, one of the demons disappeared. A surprised breath left him. "Watch-" He started.

Then dark green erupted at his feet. The creature sprung from the ground, slamming against Cyrlen’s legs and smashing him onto his back. All air evaporated from his lungs and spots sprinkled his vision. The thing let out a cry, pulling its head back. Grunting, Cyrlen tried to lift himself onto his elbows; a wave of power shot from the creature and smothered him back down onto the stone. He struggled for breath, fighting to get air into his lungs as another wave slapped him.

His head cracked against the stone floor, and more spots blocked his vision. He lost feeling in his fingertips. Another wave crashed into him. His magic was inches away from his reach, close enough to whisper false hope into his ears. He tried to turn onto his side, to crawl, but was flattened with another wave.

Then it stopped. The creature screamed as it was absorbed back into the rift. Broken breaths left Cyrlen; he sucked air in like a starved man drank in food. Dizziness broke over him, swirling his vision. A hand appeared in front of his face. Gasping, Cyrlen grasped the warm hand, only half aware of how clammy his own hands were, and was dragged up onto his feet. "Ah... there we are. Nasty little fellow, isn't he?"

The dark-haired man materialized before Cyrlen, easy-going smile and all. Warmth rushed through Cyrlen and he felt his stomach screech in embarrassment. He pulled his hand away and stumbled to right himself.

Pain scorched up his leg from his knee. He stumbled. Hands snapped to him, quickly catching him before he sprawled onto the floor for the second time that day. "Woah there, can't have you falling for me just yet, now can we?" The mage mused, a smile pulling his lips. "Mm, seems as if the rift is ready to be closed. Care to do the honors?"

Cyrlen's ears felt as if they could fry a quick egg. He turned his attention towards the rift and threw his hand towards it. Tingling fire burned up his arm from the mark in his hand. It crawled up and numbed his shoulder. He still felt an arm around his waist, holding him up. His chest tightened.

Threads sewed themselves around the rift—Cyrlen yanked his hand back, tightening the knot. In seconds, the rift collapsed onto itself and disappeared. Shakily, he tried to put his feet under him. His knee protested loudly. "My-" Cyrlen stammered, looking around.

"Looking for this?" The mage smiled and passed him his staff. He glanced around the empty Chantry. It seemed so much larger now with the rift gone. A lot emptier, too. His eyes drew back towards Cyrlen. "Fascinating. How does that work, exactly?"

Cheeks warm, Cyrlen took a shaky step away from the other mage and used his staff as crutch.

A slight giggle left the man, his eyes warming with amusement. "You don't even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and boom!" The mage paused and thoughtfully regarded  Cyrlen. "Rift closes."

Raising a brow, Cyrlen managed, "Who are you?"

"Ah! Getting ahead of myself again, I see." The man stepped back and bowed. "Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do." It wasn't so much as a question as a greeting, before he charged on, "Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable—as I'm sure you can imagine."

"I was expecting Felix to be here," Cyrlen glanced around them to make sure that the young man wasn't hiding behind a column. He swallowed, forcefully. His cheeks were still warm from his blunder. Ah! The _amazing_ Herald of Andraste, falling on his arse in mid battle. How frightening.

"I'm sure he's on his way," Dorian followed Cyrlen's gaze. "He was to give you the note, then meet us here after ditching his father." His eyes fell back on Cyrlen.

Holding tightly onto his staff, Cyrlen studied the man before him. "Felix—he..." His brows came together. "His father couldn't rush to his side fast enough when he pretended to be faint. Is something wrong with him?" He remembered the first time his brother came down with something. It had terrified Cyrlen. There were plenty nights sitting beside his brother, holding tightly onto his hand.

"Ah," Dorian reached up to pull on the edge of his mustache. "He's had some lingering illness for months." His eyes whispered of something more but he only said, "Felix is an only child, and Alexius is being a mother hen."

Cheeks still warm with a lingering blush, Cyrlen licked his lips and shyly said, "Oh, and... thank you. For helping me, uh, earlier."

Amusement pooled into Dorian's eyes and he said, "Well of course. Can't have you on your back for just anyone, now can we?"

Cyrlen hesitated, wondering if there was more to that. He heard Sera snort behind him. Quickly, he stammered, "Are you a magister, too?"

The mage's face fell and he let out a sigh. "Alright. Let's say this once. I am a mage from Tevinter, but not a member of the Magisterium. I know southerners use the terms interchangeably, but that only makes you sound like barbarians."

Irritation sparked through Cyrlen. He narrowed his eyes at the mage and grumbled, "Well, then. Suppose you should be grateful I asked and clarified that." With a forced smile, Cyrlen said, "You're betraying your mentor _because...?_ "

"Alexus _was_ my mentor," Dorian pointed out, eyes falling to Cyrlen's cold smile. "Meaning he isn't any longer, not for some time." His voice dropped and he stepped closer to Cyrlen to search his eyes. "Look, you must know there is danger. That should be obvious even without the note."

Cyrlen shifted uncomfortably and eyed the mage, "The timing is too perfect-"

"Yes!" Dorian said, as if he reached a gold mine. "As if by magic, right? Exactly. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself."

The floor sunk beneath Cyrlen, and he felt his stomach flip uncomfortably. "He arranged it so he could arrive just after the Divine died." If such a thing were possible. His heart stuttered and his hands tightened their grip onto the staff. _If such a thing were possible—_ the things he could do, the _thing_ he would do. If he could. His body ached at the mere thought of his brother.

"You catch on quick," the mage said, a smile uplifting the corner of his mustache. Cyrlen's cheeks warmed under the praise, and thoughts of his brother quieted.

"That is fascinating," Solas spoke up behind them, a light smile musing his lips. "If true... and almost certainly dangerous."

"The rift you closed here," Dorian motioned around them.

"It changed time," Cyrlen finished. His gut twisted in a familiar uneasiness. "Slowed things down, and quickened them." He reached up and ran his fingers through his hair, staring at one of the belts on the mage's tunic. "It seemed unstable—there was one just like it at the entrance of Redcliffe-"

"And there will be more like it." Dorian shook his head. "Soon they'll appear further and further away from here." He spoke with his hand, brows pulled tightly together. "The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it's unraveling the world."

There were too many questions. They lingered in the back of his throat, useless and unanswered. Cyrlen shook his head and said, "I would appreciate more than just 'Magical time control! Go with it.'"

Dorian frowned. "I know what I am talking about. I helped develop this magic. When I was his apprentice, it was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work." He lifted a hand to hold his chin in thought, his eyes searching above Cyrlen's head. "What I don't understand is why he is doing it. Ripping time to shreds, just to gain a few hundred lackeys?"

"He didn't do it for them."

The voice startled Cyrlen and he nearly stumbled again. He turned to see Felix approaching them, kind eyes greeting him. "Took you long enough!" Dorian said cheerfully. "He's not getting suspicious, is he?"

"No, but I shouldn't have played the illness card." The young man sighed with a wincing smile. "I thought he would be fussing over me all day." Felix glanced over at Cyrlen and dipped his head, "My father's joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves 'Venatori'. And I can tell you one thing, whatever he's done for them, he's done it to get to you."

Surprise flickered through Cyrlen and he placed a hand on his chest, as if he were touched. "All this for me? And I here I haven't gotten Alexius anything." His eyes swept over to Dorian, and his heart fluttered when he saw the man was smiling.

"Send him a fruit basket. Everyone loves those." Dorian sobered slightly and continued, "You know you're his target. Expecting the trap is the first step in turning it to your advantage." The mage stepped back. "I can't stay in Redcliffe. Alexius doesn't know I am here, and I would rather keep it that way. For now. But whenever you want to deal with him," Dorian nodded, "I want to be there. I'll be in touch." He winked playfully at Cyrlen before he turned away from them. As he retreated, he called, "Oh! And Felix, try not to get yourself killed."

"There are worse things than dying, Dorian," the young man said, eyes softening. He dipped his head in farewell to Cyrlen before turning to walk away.

After both had vacated the building, a long sigh left Cyrlen. He leaned his head against his staff and tried to get some control over his beating heart. It had to be the weirdness of the situation, he told himself. It couldn't have been anything else.

Sera snorted behind him. "You fell on your arse, didya?"

"Again," Solas sighed. "You've sustained an injury, haven't you."

"I prefer an injured leg," Cyrlen turned to them, waving a hand through the air. "It's to even the odds for our enemies. So that they feel as if they have more of a chance against us."

 

* * *

 

_Horses. We finally have horses. And I nearly drove the thing right off a cliff. Harding has been making jokes all evening, and keeping a close eye on me. I don’t think that my cheeks will ever stop burning._

_At least it’s a distraction from the rain, among other things._

_We try to play cards underneath the flickering candlelight. Everyone is sharing smiles and trying to keep things light. Though, we’re all heavy with sorrow and fear. I see it behind their eyes, and feel it in my chest._

_There’s going to have to be a big decision soon. One that is going to change the world. I fear for the one who has to choose._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "So, heh... are you... curious?" A stranger saunters up to you, a sly smile written on their lips. You feel a strange wave of absolute fear and violent curiosity. You're stuck. The stranger winks at you--or at least you think that is winking, is their eye just stuck like that? And they pull open their trench coat.
> 
> You cry in horror and cover your eyes-
> 
> "On what Cereal looks like?"
> 
> You drop your hands from your eyes and realize the stranger was just adjusting their coat. You gulp. "What?"
> 
> "Did you want to see what Cookie looks like, you know the elf that is in this fic? The sobby one? Who needs a good pat on his back?" The stranger huffs. 
> 
> "Do you mean... Cyrlen?" You said, dubiously. 
> 
> "Corner," the stranger nods.
> 
> Shaking your head, you say, "No, it's Cyrlen. Like, the beginning of Cereal, but just 'lyn'." 
> 
> "Celery." 
> 
> "No. Like, Siri, kind of? Just say it with me, See-er-" You begin.
> 
> "Bah! Who cares," the stranger throws their hands in the air. "Just have [the YouTube link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vhVeJ_YsWU)."
> 
> ___
> 
> P.S. Thank you guys so much for reading!


	3. Red Faced and Red Handed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sir Handsome Bottom likes his tea hot, if you please.
> 
> Also, hold back on the stripweed of any kind.
> 
> Well--never mind. Just hold the tea.
> 
> He'll make it himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worship thee, oh great [Caitticat](http://psychoticcupcake.tumblr.com/). Hear my great pleas of worship, my reverence, my savior. 
> 
> Thank you, though. I owe you a lot, girl. A ton. 
> 
> Also, you guys can thank Cat for the beautiful horse story. It's inspired from an experience of her own.
> 
> ((Go follow her, please--before the Great One decides that I haven't shown enough worship. [Quickly](http://psychoticcupcake.tumblr.com/)!))

Clouds patched the dim blue sky, sucking the color from the horizon. A drizzle of rain faintly misted over them. Drops of water kept gathering on the tips of his ears, forcing him to flick them, much like the dreaded horses who seemed in no better mood. Exhaling soundlessly, Cyrlen drew his eyes towards the dim sky.

The salty air refreshed their little camp. The sound of distant waves crashing into the coast lulled him; he wished he could crawl inside one of the tents and sleep. The misty air held a chilly bite, and no matter how many times he attempted to dry or warm himself with a spell, he still felt cold and miserable.

“Ser Lordybloomers,” Sera teased, standing in front of him while leaning on her bow. Her eyes glowed with mischievousness. “Are you caught with a bug? Your face is all blotchy and weird. It wouldn’t happen to be _that,_ would it?”

“That?” Cyrlen echoed. He raised a brow and studied the archer. Her smile split across her face. A dash of apprehension tickled Cyrlen’s insides, and he quickly said, “Smile anymore and your face will split. Smugness is unbecoming of you-”

“Oh shut it! I saw you,” Sera stood up straight and whipped her bow around as if it were a staff. She made little “pew pew” noises for the fire shots and then pretended to trip. “Oh, Sir Handsome Bottom! Save me!” Whipping around, she turned towards the spot that she had once occupied and deepened her voice, “I am here, Lord Too-Tight-of-Breeches!”

“Why do _I_ get the high voice?” Cyrlen sighed. The archer let out a laugh

“And that’s what you choose to comment on?” Blackwall spoke up, a hint of laughter in his voice.

Cyrlen dipped his head, feeling a blush warm his cold cheeks. Lightly shaking his head, he glanced up at Sera. “I… am merely embarrassed about falling. Clumsiness isn’t usually in my nature-“

“Oh, piss!” Sera stuck her tongue out at him. “Please. I saw the way he handled your staff.”

“He… he what?” Cassandra said, startled.

Heat crashed down on Cyrlen and he forgot about the chill. The Warden coughed into his hand, and Sera let out another shrill laugh. “Don’t listen to her, Cassandra,” Cyrlen said quickly. “It’s—she’s-”He stumbled over his words and rubbed his face in his hands.

“I do not wish to know the details,” Cassandra sneered, her nose scrunching in distaste.

“Details?” Cyrlen stammered and rose to his feet. “We—we simply _met._ I fell, dropped my staff and he-”

Sera made a popping sound and said, “Those bloomers didn’t last long.”

“I-I don’t even know what that means. Besides, I can appreciate,” Cyrlen stuttered, his cheeks bright with a blush. He frowned at Sera before his eyes cut towards Cassandra. “And that’s all. He was…” He wiped a hand through the air. “ _Handsome._ But a pretty face isn’t much. I don’t drop my drawers for anyone. So,” his voice wavered, “stop worrying.” Clearing his throat, he snatched his staff off the floor and stomped away from his seat. “I’m going for a short walk.” He paused and turned towards them. “I didn’t—I didn’t drop my drawers for him. I-” Shaking his head, he sighed through his nose and headed away from the camp.

The sound of laughter followed him. Cyrlen let out a long breath and let his head hang. He decidedly ignored Sera’s taunts behind him, many of which full of vulgar words that burned his ears. The trail let up to a rocky hillside. He carefully made his way down, and wondered if the light raindrops turned to steam as they touched his skin.

The coast opened up, showing him the large expanse of the ocean. His breath stuttered at the look of it. Waters never really faired him well. He preferred solid ground beneath his feet.

His foot slipped and he skidded his way down the rest of the small hill. A small curse passed his lips and stumbled when he reached the flat ground. His knee let out a cry of protest, and pain drummed up his leg. The wound might have been treated, but Cyrlen doubted the healers would have _sliding down hills_ in their list of ways to treat his leg.

“If you continue on like that, you’re going to end up with another wound in your right leg,” Cassandra’s sharp voice sounded behind him.

A sheepish smile turned Cyrlen’s lips and he glanced back at her. “Ah, well. Then what would all the healers have to do? If we don’t keep them occupied, they might get bored. And that would be a shame.”

“Do you want Adan to get snippy with you again?” Cassandra’s eyes danced.

“Ah, he threatened to cut my leg off to save him the trouble,” Cyrlen shook his head and let out a breath. “I used to not be so accident prone.”

“I understand there’s been… distractions for you, lately.” The Seeker raised brow and stopped to stand beside him.

A wave of a blush heated Cyrlen and he drew his eyes towards the coast. “Distractions, yes. Or mere stupidity.” He sighed and started forward again. The Seeker fell in step beside him with a silent question. “I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t a handsome face that distracted me. I am still…” His brows fell together and he stared down at the ground. “Getting used to the idea, that my brother is…”

A light hand touched his forearm. “Josephine… she told me of the way you spoke of him. Losing family,” Cassandra’s voice dipped, “it’s… tough. And I’m afraid it doesn’t really ever stop being tough.”

Cyrlen gave her a side glance and studied her. “You’ve lost someone.”

“Yes, and I… am not ready to speak of it. Not now.” She clenched her jaw and stared at the rolling waves. “But I’ve lost my brother, too.”

A soft breath left Cyrlen and he nodded. “I understand.” He swallowed his pain and continue forward. “On a lighter note, you don’t have to worry about me being… _swayed._ After all these years, the only face that’s ever been able to charm me into doing something was my brother’s. Of course, it’s the large eyes.”

Snorting, Cassandra smiled wryly. “They get that down somehow. They can get a free cookie out of any baker.”  She hesitated and regarded him. “Don’t let their teasing get to you.”

Cyrlen gave her a faint smile. “They’re having fun. I don’t mind a few jokes at my expense.” He stopped near the coast and stared at the rolling waves. “Laughter heals.” A breeze rushed with the waves and tousled his hair. Crossing his arms, he stared into the deep, stormy blue.

“You don’t laugh so much, for believing that.” The Seeker shifted on her feet and looked around them. “Though I suppose I can understand why.” Waves crashed into the shore, and foam rushed towards their boots.

Warming his hands with a silent spell, Cyrlen studied the rolling water. He was tempted to slip off his boots and dip his toes into the salty blue. His eyes softened with memories of him and his brother playing in the water, splashing another and screeching. Those days ended with Cyrlen carrying his brother back through the woods, and his brother’s sleepy breaths tickling the back of his neck. Watching the water recede, he said, “Laughing is hard to come by these days.”

 

* * *

 

The misty air weighed down on his shoulders. He stared at the bodies scattered across the floor, numbly listening to the angry words of his companions. Their words were laced with venom, with a need for revenge. Cyrlen let out a soft, sad breath and crouched by the nearest body.

Tenderly, he turned the scout over to peer at their face. They were young. Probably just a bit older than what Maeron would have been. They stunk of death, with eyes gazed and foggy. Eyebrows falling together, Cyrlen wondered about their story.

Did they have family? Upon joining the Inquisition, had they realized they would die? His skin prickled and he gently closed their eyes. “You won’t be alone,” Cyrlen promised quietly. He stood up and glanced towards his companions. “I’m going to make Mercy’s Crest.”

“What?” Sera startled. “But-“

“I will not stain this ground with more blood than necessary,” Cyrlen clipped, his eyes narrowed. He searched their faces, waiting for open opposition. He only saw sadness. A thick breath left him and he shook his head, staring down at the rotted floorboards. “There’s been enough deaths.”

“Then what we are we standing around for?” Sera twirled her bow in the air. “Let’s go get the stuffs for this crest thingie.”

 

* * *

 

_The Herald makes quick work. He’s explored most of the Hinterlands and I hear the cult on the coast has joined the Inquisition. I wonder what type of person would be the type who would turn around and recruit those who have killed our people._

_But I suppose the question is: who would be the person who would slaughter an entire people for the death of a few?_

_I’m glad to be off the coast. We’ve been given leave for a bit. Warm bread and cheese have never tasted so good. Though, it’s these nights that I can’t help but be faced with my thoughts. These nights are dangerous nights._

_Being so close to the breach, I can’t help but feel my hands tremble idly._

 

* * *

 

The fire crackled with warmth. He pressed his hands near the dancing flames. His belly was full with warm broth, and the tips of his ears didn’t feel so cold. And best of all, he was _dry._

“Alright pony boy,” Varric stood across from the flames and smirked lightly. “What’s the story with the horses?”

“The… what?” Cyrlen raised a brow. He glanced around the fire. A few others stood around it. Even Cassandra had abandoned her dummy to join them for a quick dinner by the warm fire.

“Oh, this will be good,” the Seeker smiled into her bowl.

“Your admirable… _caution_ of horses,” Blackwall said, his eyes sparking.

A blush filled Cyrlen’s cheeks and he frowned. “It’s hardly a good story, and I’m not that good of a story-”

“Come _on,_ ” Sera groaned. “Loosen your trousers, would you?”

With a sigh, Cyrlen smiled and said, “Alright, _fine._ But don’t blame me if I bore you.” He stood and rubbed his hands together.

“Would you look at that, it’s a _standing_ story. Should I put this one aside for a book?” Varric raised a brow.

“Oh yes, definitely,” Cyrlen felt the corner of his lips curling. “This will be one to tell for _ages._ ” He ran his fingers through his hair. It was getting longer, although not yet in his face. The last person to help him trim his hair was his brother. “Well. I was young.”

“You were young once? The very idea,” Cassandra’s lips curled.

“I told you I wasn’t a storyteller,” Cyrlen said, fighting a large smile.

Throwing her hands in the air, Sera called, “Shut your gobs! I want to listen.”

The smile pulled his lips and he ran a hand over his face. “Fine… Around that time, we settled camp in a forest that was near some farms,” Cyrlen watched the flames, and imagined the forest’s trees within it. “The trees there were barer. There were more pines and ferns. And the forests cut off, giving away to farmland. Probably logged for it. The trees were old, too. Large and towering—stretching so far into the sky that I couldn’t see the tips. Ah, anyways. I wandered a lot away from my clan. This was before my brother was born—or perhaps, maybe when our mother was pregnant?” He shook his head and played with one of the rings he found in the Hinterlands. “Anyhow, I ran across a… friend.”

Warm chestnut eyes flickered into his mind. A wide smile with a missing tooth and a dimple. His cheeks filled with warmth. “A _friend?_ ” Sera repeated, her eyes narrowed on his face. “Your face is getting all weird again.”

“A horror story with a spice of romance. I like it,” Varric smirked.

“Now it’s getting interesting,” the Iron Bull wiped a hand across the air. “What did you two do? Try to do it on a horse? _That_ would be fun-“

Horror washed through Cyrlen and he stared at the qunari in utter disbelief. His skin flushed hot and he vehemently shook his head. “H-He was a friend! A friend.” Cyrlen repeated. Quickly, he stammered, “ _Anyways,_ he was a son of a farmer. And I ran across him when I was exploring the area. One of the times we… visited another, he was showing me a wild herd of horses.” Cyrlen sighed softly. “The day had been warm. We stopped by the river and shared lunch. The river created this small nook, and it made everything seem so peaceful. Mares came down on the other side of the hill for a drink. They were… terrifying and beautiful. Huge. I was smaller, then.” His lips curled and he let out a soft chuckle. “Smaller than I am now.”

Cyrlen glanced up and words froze in his throat. A lot of eyes were on him, drawn to him either by the story or by the mere fact that he was speaking. His stomach curled, and he ducked his head shyly. “I… was young. With something to prove.” He said, shifting his weight on his feet. “Somehow, the topic of conversation switched to me swimming across river to meet with the horses, and swim back.”

“Oh, Maker,” Cassandra crossed her arms.

Lips pulling, Cyrlen nodded. “Yes. So, here I was, stripped to my underclothes, diving into the water. I swam across the river, heading towards the mares.” Waving a hand in the air, Cyrlen shrugged and said. “You guys can discern the rest.”

A laugh left Sera and she tossed a piece of her toast at him. He ducked out of its way and shot her a warning glance. “Come on! You’ve started, get to it!”

Sighing, Cyrlen held a hand to his face and shook his head. “I get to the other side. At first everything is alright. All I hear is my heartbeat. I raise from the water—and I am not quite sure _what_ causes it, but the horses go wild. They begin stomping the water, and a few run towards me. I was _terrified._ I-“ He let out a small laugh. “I ran into the woods in nothing but my _smalls._ The mares were behind me, and I felt them right on my back. I ended up launching myself off a small cliff and I got caught in a tree. I still,” Cyrlen placed a hand on his torso and traced his armor. “I have a scar from the branches, up my side.”

Blackwall clapped, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Saved by a tree. Classic.”

“And sheer stupidity,” Cyrlen shook his head.

Varric chuckled and asked, “How did you get down?”

“Uh, well,” Cyrlen ducked his head. “The mares left. Of course. My friend apparently ran off for help, and… well. I was up there for a while until my Keeper found me.” He rubbed the back of his head. “It was… quite the day. _But._ There’s that. Now you know of my great terrible _caution_ of horses. They don’t like me, and frankly, I don’t care to ask them why.”

A pair of clapping hands startled Cyrlen. He turned around, searching for the source of the clapping. His heart stuttered. Leisurely amongst the sparse crowd stood a certain Tevinter mage. Dorian’s mustache tilted with a soft smirk, his eyes shining in the fire light. “My, my. That was _quite_ the story. Fascinating. Though, not a fun experience. Was this farm boy of yours not impressed?”

“Oi,” Sera laughed. “Look! It’s Sir Handsome Bottom!”

Horrified, Cyrlen quickly hissed, “ _Sera._ ” A snort left Sera and she clapped her hands over her mouth to withhold some more laughs. “I-I didn’t-“ Cyrlen stammered. “I didn’t nickname y-you that, it—it was _her_ doing. N-Not that the nickname isn’t true.”

“Oh?” Dorian raised a brow. His mustache twitched and his smile grew. “Well, I’m glad my fine features have been noticed. But I am not sure if I am the one who should honor that title.” His eyes dropped to Cyrlen’s belt.

A squeak wanted to burst from Cyrlen’s mouth, but he managed to keep his dignity and clamp his jaw shut. His skin burst, blistering with warmth.

“I take it you are the mage that seeks our help with the magister?” The Seeker eyed Dorian, searching his eyes. “Come to convince us further?”

“I come to offer my help, of course.” Dorian glanced towards her and his face grew serious. “I do hope you’re not considering just leaving things as they are. You do realize the gravity of this situation.” His eyes cut back towards Cyrlen, his brow raising.

“I-uh. Yes. I do. We do.” Cyrlen swallowed and crossed his arms. “We need to discuss our options.” He glanced towards Cassandra. She gave him a tight glance.

“Boo!” Sera cupped her hands over her mouth. “ _Boo!_ You’re not done! How about that bloke on the farm? You can’t just leave us with that!”

“I’m sorry to say it, but Buttercup’s right. Where’s the _romance_?” Varric’s lips curled.

Voice sly, Dorian added, “I’m afraid no story is truly finished without a little venture and betrayal,”

Hesitating, Cyrlen shook his head. “Another time. We’ve got a lot to do. A lot to decide.” He stepped away from the fire, plucking his staff off the ground. His knee whined very quietly in protest.

A groan left Sera. “Boring! So boring! Hardly worth it. Arse it. At least give us _something._ ”

Sighing, Cyrlen straightened and thoughtfully tapped his staff to his chin. “Fine, fine. If I _must._ I… well,” the corner of his lips curled. There were moments he remembered so vividly. Like lying on his back in the middle of a field, his fingertips grazing the hand of another. A blush playing on his cheeks when their fingers entwined, the soft beat of his heart. And the sound that the grass made, when his friend turned onto his side to whisper into Cyrlen’s ear. “I… _might_ have shared a few kisses with him.”

Sera yowled and threw a cup towards him. “Well anyone coulda guessed that, Corny!”

The Iron Bull cupped a hand over his mouth to whisper to Sera. “I bet they did more than just share spit.” The cupping was useless. His voice carried well over the fire’s crackling.

A cackle left Sera and she shot him a wry smirk. “He’s just keeping the juicy bits to himself!”

“I don’t think he was keeping his bits to himself at all,” the Iron Bull rolled his head back and let out a bellowing laugh.

Blushing, Cyrlen shrugged. “That’s all I’m willing to share.” He quickly made his escape, ignoring the calls behind him. Ears hot, he trudged up the small hill. Cold air assaulted him as soon as he was far enough from the fire. He sighed, allowing himself to fantasize about a warm bed and blankets.

“You sure know how to make a quick getaway.” Dorian stepped up beside him, foggy air trickling from his mouth. “Dare I say that story was-“

“If you say ‘cute’ I will show you what a _real_ quick getaway looks like.” Cyrlen raised a brow.

A warm laugh left Dorian and he smiled. “I suppose I’ll refrain from saying it, then. Although, it would be a shame to miss out on the opportunity of watching you walk away.”

Clamping his jaw, Cyrlen managed to stifle another undignified noise. His cheeks warmed, and he managed a jerky nod. “Th-The night is pretty chilly.”

The mage nodded and glanced up towards the sky. “Were you expecting any differently? I’m glad I’ve come all this way to speak to you of the weather. It’s really such an important past time, is it not?”

“I,” Cyrlen winced. “I’m sorry. There are pressing matters, and-”

“Having some laughter isn’t a crime, Lavellan,” Cullen’s commanding voice cut in. The Chantry doors framed him, only managing to make him seem larger. His eyes slid over to Dorian with a quiet question in his eyes. “I think you can afford as much. Were you going to call a meeting? I know that we’ve received some letters, news regarding the watchtowers and that cult off in the Storm Coast.”

“I’ve some thoughts,” Cyrlen stopped in front of him. Chilly air pressed down on him, and he couldn’t stop a soft shiver. His hand moved for a small spell, but he refrained. Around Cullen, he tried to keep magic to a minimum. “I do think it’s time for decisions to be made. Good evening, by the way.”

“You’re leaning towards the mages,” Cullen said. It wasn’t a question. His eyes burned into the mage beside Cyrlen.

“This is Dorian,” Cyrlen said quickly, placing a hand on the mage’s shoulder. “Of House Pavus. Most recently of Minrathous. The Tevinter mage that I ran into in Redcliffe.”

“Yes, I got notice of him coming,” Cullen crossed his arms and his eyes fell on Cyrlen’s hand. “Well, it seems as if Cassandra’s on her way. The others are already inside.” A sigh left him and he turned and disappeared through the large doors.

“Lovely man,” Dorian said wryly. His eyes slid to Cyrlen and one of his carefully shaped brows lifted. “You remembered, right down to a tittle.”

“O-Oh,” An embarrassed smile pulled Cyrlen’s lips. “I have a very good memory.” He pulled his hand away, ignoring the flush of heat against his skin. The air in the building was only a bit warmer than the harsh night air. Cyrlen ached to stand by a fire hearth, or perhaps bury himself under a few hundred blankets. “You’ve walked quite a bit to come here.”

“Don’t remind me,” Dorian smoothed his mustache, his eyes warm in the candlelight.

Cyrlen let out a breath and rubbed his palms together to warm them. “With all that’s going on, I haven’t gotten much sleep, either.”

A smile lit Dorian’s face. His voice dipped when he said, “Thoughts of me have been keeping you up at night?”

“I-I,” Cyrlen stammered. “No! Not—not like, n-no. I more of meant, th-that,” he swallowed. “I-I’ve traveled here and there, and with all that has to be done…”

Dorian’s chuckle warmed the air and his eyes flickered forward. “You wouldn’t be the first to be kept up because of me. I’ve been told I’m quite distracting _._ ”

Wryly, Cyrlen smiled. “Well, that much I can see.” He eyed the mage’s armor. “Could you tie a bit more metal onto that outfit of yours? Sparkle any more and someone might think it a glamour.”

Surprise pulled Dorian’s face and he flashed Cyrlen a daring smile. “Color me shocked! The elf _can_ show some humor! And here I thought that he was learning the ways of a stone.”

“Not to brag, but my stone mother is the greatest tutor you’ll ever meet,” Cyrlen stepped up towards the door and held it open for Dorian. “I could introduce you to her, if you wish?”

“My, Herald. You’ve been quite the joker of late,” Josephine greeted, her eyes warm with a smile.

Cyrlen ducked his head. “Believe it or not, I _am_ more sarcastic than I’ve lead you all to believe.” He stopped in front of the war table and stared down at the operations. More have popped up since he had last been in the room. He stifled a sigh.

“Will this man be joining us this evening?” Leliana said from across the table, her eyes tight on the mage.

“He’ll be helpful in deciding our course of action,” Cyrlen picked up a few letters. “He’s the mage-”

“Believe it or not, but he is in the room. And he can introduce himself. Of course, these are mere notions. Perhaps we should test them out someday,” Dorian leaned against the wall, hiding a smile.

“Don’t take offense,” Cassandra stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. “He does it to everyone.”

Ears heating, Cyrlen dropped the letters in shame. “Everyone? I’ve done it more than now?”

“On occasion,” Cassandra’s lips pulled into a faint smile.

A soft laugh left Josephine, “Don’t worry, sir Herald.”

“I do have to say my favorite was when he was describing Cullen to Sera,” Leliana smiled at Josephine. “You were there, Josie. What was it said?”

A sigh left Cullen. “Something of my hair. Shall we get started?”

“Oh! Yes, that it was it, ‘Curly Ruffleford.’” Leliana laughed.

Horror twisted through Cyrlen and he held up his hands, “I am so sorry, Cullen. I’m horrible with names, and I have to have a way to remember them. And even then it takes me a few times. Oh, Creators.”

“Shall we get started?” Cullen repeated, his tone dry. Seconds later, he ducked his head to hide a small smile. “What were we discussing?”

With a blush, Cyrlen glanced down at the letters. Out of the corner of his eye, he felt a gaze on him. Dorian stared at him, his expression thoughtful. It was then that Cyrlen remembered what he had said: _“I have a very good memory.”_

 

* * *

 

_There is trouble in Redcliffe. Of course there is. The entire world is falling apart. I’m headed off to no man’s land, and my mood is not improving. Even the horses are irritated in this hot weather. We’re scouting a place at the Herald’s request, to find some information about something or other._

_Something about skulls._

_Last we heard, the Herald is headed towards Redcliffe. It’s selfish, but I’m glad I’m trekking across Thedas, not sneaking into the halls of some castle. I would not want to be the bait, either._

_Whoever this Herald is, he’s either insanely brave or downright stupid._

 

* * *

 

The shadows cocooned him, a promise of safety. Dank, thick air didn’t do well for his hair, or for his anything for that matter. And on top of that, being all sneaky and quiet really wasn’t his cup of tea. Arms crossed, Dorian stared into the little throne room that Alexius had set up for himself. Typical, really.

The doors to the room burst open with the Herald on the other side. In a few moments of weakness, Dorian felt a small rush of awe and fear. The man was intimidating, to say the least. Face as cold as stone, eyes glowing in the dim light. It was no wonder why people looked towards this elf and saw someone touched by a greater power.

“Announce us,” Lavellan said without a second of hesitation. His brows pulled together and he searched the room. His staff was in hand, and he used it as a crutch, though he did not need it. It probably was more of habit than anything, a comfort.

A man walked towards the Herald, blonde hair greasy and eyes too small to really hold any intelligence. “The Magister’s invitation was for Mister Lavellan alone.” He stopped in front of the elf, face drawn in distaste.

Behind the Herald stood the Seeker Cassandra and the other elf, who looked around as if she had just farted and wondered if anyone would notice. _Great choice in ‘coordinators’, Herald,_ Dorian thought with a soft smirk. Lavellan said calmly, “You wouldn’t let me in without my negotiators, would you? That’s just cruel.”

The man paused and frowned deeply. He looked like he was about to object. Except the Herald’s eyes sharpened. His eyes could cut steel. Swallowing nervously, the man nodded and turned. He lead the trio up the steps towards Alexius. Several guards lined their path, with a few more right at their feet.

_Excessive, Alexius?_ Dorian humored inwardly.

Lavellan looked as if he didn’t even know the concept of fear.

“My lord Magister, the Inquisition and the Herald has arrived,” the man called, standing off to the side.

The entire room’s attention was on the Herald. Very carefully, Dorian moved with the shadows to get a better view. Lavellan’s eyes were drawn forward, pinned on Alexius who sat leisurely in the throne. The Magister slowly raised to his feet and opened his arms, “My friend!” Lavellan’s face tightened. “It’s so good to see you,” Alexius purred. He always attempted to use ‘friend’ in a way to make people more comfortable. It seemed as if it wasn’t working on the Herald. At all. “And your… associates, of course.” The man didn’t sound pleased. “I’m sure we can work out some arrangement that is equitable to all parties.”

“Are we mages to have no voice in deciding our fate?” The former Grand Enchanter cut in.

“Fiona, you would not have turned your followers over to me if you did not trust me with their lives,” Alexius answered with slight warning in his tone.

“Oh, of course,” Lavellan cut in. “You must have a great many people throwing their fates into your hands. You have that sort of face.” Behind him, Sera snickered.

Dorian bit back a smile.

With a soft sigh, Alexius turned away to return to his seat. He studied the Herald, trying to disguise the irritation on his face. “The Inquisition needs mages, and I happen to have them. So, what shall you offer in exchange?”

The Herald shifted on his feet and tapped his chin, peering up at the ceiling as if he were pondering. “I was thinking about this on the way over, really. What do I have to offer, for the lives of so many? At first I thought I could sing for you, then I thought: Dancing! But then, of course, we would have to get some bards in here, and I would have to find the correct dancing wear, then it would be a mess of me being indecisive, standing in front of a mirror. ‘This shirt? No! I can’t possibly wear _that._ ’ So, I settled with a winning smile. Easy enough.”

To stifle a laugh, Dorian clamped his hand over his mouth. Disbelief rushed through him and he shook his head. The _nerve!_

Alexius’s face drew in surprise and he stared at Lavellan in shock. “A-A, _what?_ What is the meaning of this?”

“He knows everything, father,” Felix’s soft voice cut through the harsh room. He turned towards the Magister, face drawn in a mix of sorrow and worry.

“Felix,” Alexius’ face broke, and he stared at his son in betrayal. “What have you done?”

“Believe it or not, your son is worried about you,” Lavellan crossed his arms and frowned deeply. “Your decisions haven’t been the smartest of late, really.”

“Says the thief!” The Magister said, voice thick with anger. “You can’t turn my son against me. You walk into my stronghold with your stolen mark--a gift you don’t even understand. And you think you’re in control?” He stood from his throne and raised his chin, glaring down at the Herald. “You’re nothing but a mistake.”

The Herald flinched. Subtly--it was but a mere flicker of movement. If Dorian hadn’t been studying him closely, he wouldn’t have noticed it. Lavellan’s stony face pulled with irritation and he blandly said, “If you’re so enlightened in all of this, why don’t you share some information. What was supposed to happen?”

“It belongs to those far better than yourself,” Alexius turned his nose up. “Your simple mind couldn’t possibly wrap around its complexity.”

Dorian inched forward, stepping away from the shadows. Now was as good a time as any to step forward, he supposed.

“Father, listen to yourself,” Felix stepped forward, and in attempt to calm the Magister, he placed a hand on his arm. “Do you even know what you sound like?”

Waltzing past the columns, Dorian stepped out into view and said, “He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliche that everyone expects us to be.” The Herald gave him a side glance, with the softest hint of a smile. Stopping beside him, Dorian crossed his arms and raised a brow at Alexius.

“Dorian,” the Magister said in surprise, tone softened with familiarity. “I gave you a chance to be a part of this. You turned me down. The Elder One has power that you would not believe; he would raise the Imperium from its own ashes.”

“Oh, great.” Lavellan crossed his arms. “A fanatic. And here I was wondering when one will pop up. They always do, you know.”

A smile pulled Dorian’s lips and he tossed the Herald a glance. “It’s not uncommon to find two. In this case, we have a whole room of them.”

“Soon the Elder One will become a god,” the Magister raised his hands. “He will make the world bow to mages once more. We will rule from one corner of the world to the other-”

“You can’t involve my people in this!” Fiona shouted, her voice twisted with disbelief.

A soft breath filled Dorian’s lungs. He stared at his former mentor, a man that he had once been so familiar with. A sheet of ice felt like it fell over him, brushing a chill over his skin as he stared at this stranger--a man who was driven to desperation. “Alexius,” Dorian spoke, voice thick. “This is exactly what you and I talked about _never_ wanting to happen. Why would you support this?” He shook his head, choked in dumbfoundment.

“Stop it father,” Felix said, teeth clenched. He grasped his father’s shoulder in a desperate attempt to ground him. “Let the southern mages fight the breach and let’s go home.”

Alexius turned towards him, brows pulled together in pain. “No, it’s the only way, Felix.” His voice wavered under the weight of emotion. “He can save you.”

“Save me?” Felix snapped. “From what? Father-”

“There is a way, the Elder One promised. If I undo the mistake at the temple, he will save you,” the Magister turned to look at the Herald, as if he were nothing more than an object that had to be fixed.

“I’m going to die,” Felix said softly. “You need to accept that.”

Ignoring him, Alexius jabbed a finger at the Herald. “Venatori, seize them. The Elder One demands this elf’s life.”

A cry shattered the heaviness of the air, drawing attention. A guard fell to ground, choking on their own blood. One by one, the Venatori guards were plucked off like white flowers in a field, replaced by Inquisition soldiers. Lavellen stepped forward, his shoulder brushing against Dorian’s as he motioned around them. “Your men are dead, Alexius.”

Anger ripped across Alexius’ face. A drop of foreboding washed through Dorian, and he heard the Herald catch his breath beside him. The Magister raised his hand with something clutched in his fist. “You are a mistake,” he said through his teeth, voice shaking with his frustration. An object sparked to life in his palm.

Dorian recognized it. His breath stuttered and he shouted, “No!” Whipping his staff through the air, he shot a spell towards the Magister. It forced him to stumble back--but it was too late.

Arms wrapped around Dorian’s waist, in an attempt to pull him away. A large green portal split the air, swirling in front of them. Panic settled Dorian’s chest, and he felt hot breath tickle his neck.

Then the portal swallowed them whole.

 

* * *

 

_I… don’t believe it._

_We’re lead to believe he’s indomitable. Unbreakable. People describe him as our savior. Our chance to fix this world. They say he’s lead by Andraste’s very own hand. People speak of him as if he were holy, as if Andraste herself stepped forward and told that_ this _is the one who will save us._

_But the breach is still in the sky. It’s still there, shining and haunting us._

_It lights up our nights, tearing our sky asunder._

_And it’s promising us: this is the end._

_The Herald is dead._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Father, listen to yourself,” Felix stepped forward, and in attempt to calm the Magister, he placed a hand on his arm. “Do you even know what you sound like?”_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _He sounded like a boob. A big floppy boob. Saggy._  
>  \-- Cat 8-13-18


	4. Shallow Breaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gracious man bosoms, and pain. A lot of pain. The worst kind of pain--being unable to firmly grasp a man's staff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is... sad, to say nonetheless. But I don't know what you were expecting when you decided to read a hurt/comfort fic, man. I mean, did you see those tags? 
> 
> **As a warning, in the scout journals there is a minor mention of suicide. (i.e. along the lines of 'I want this all to end'.)**
> 
> As always, [Caitticat](http://psychoticcupcake.tumblr.com/), thank you so much. She's been such a huge support in all of this and I can't thank her enough. You'd be helping me thank her by checking out her blog! Or simply just sending her a message and saying "Oh, great one, may we serve you". 
> 
> _And_ I have to thank another close friend who did a quick read-through and told me I wasn't crazy: [Dinadoo!](http://little-dina-saur.tumblr.com/) Thank you again!
> 
> All of this support really has me blushing, guys. Thank you. Every single like and comment is amazing. So, thank you again!

Dizziness washed over him, stealing his breath. His lungs begged for air, aching painfully. The world began to fall into place, a single piece at a time. Water dripped off somewhere, into a larger pool. Its sound echoed off stone walls. Red light violently stretched across the small room, spreading out to all corners.

And a smell. Something of chestnut, and flowery. Closing his eyes, Cyrlen breathed in deeply. Maybe cinnamon. His lungs stopped aching, and he swallowed. He felt his feet, his hands—all limbs were in check.

The stony floor, lined with about an inch of cold water, sucked the warmth from his palms. Very slowly, he grew aware. A body lay underneath him. Breath teased his ear, and a leg pressed against his inner thigh. Hands held onto his sides, cementing them into their position.

“Believe it or not, but this isn’t the first time I’ve been in such intimate embrace in a flooded room,” Dorian’s voice warmed his ears.

Startled, Cyrlen pulled back. “The—what was that? Are you alright?” He vaguely remembered grabbing a hold of the mage, yanking them down to the ground in hopes of escaping the blast. Apparently it hadn’t worked. Holding his head, Cyrlen sat up.

Something warmed Dorian’s eyes; he studied Cyrlen in the same way Cassandra often did, attempting to figure out the puzzle he was. “That, dear Herald, was a rift.” He pushed himself up onto his elbows, a smirk twitching his mustache. “Seems as your attempt in saving us didn’t work.” The man smiled and patted Cyrlen’s thigh. “As much as I do enjoy this view of you straddling me, my entire back is pretty much soaked.”

Heat crashed over Cyrlen. “Creators, I-I am so sorry.” Carefully, he slipped off of the mage. Dorian’s hand traced down his thigh as he moved and left a trail of sparking heat. Swallowing, Cyrlen grasped the mage’s hand and heaved them both off the flooded floor. The mage muttered a small thank-you and peered around the room. Metal bars blocked their path, along with a shimmering pool of water. “Where are we?” Cyrlen glanced around the room. Red lyrium crystals grew out of the walls and floor, stretching across the stone. His stomach twisted with unease. Eyes flickering around the room, Cyrlen reached for his staff.

His hand met empty space. Heart pounding, Cyrlen stepped away from the mage and peered around the room. “Fenedhis,” he hissed. “I dropped my staff.”

“That might prove to be troublesome,” Dorian rubbed his chin and sighed. “Curious. This couldn’t have been what Alexius had meant to do. We’ve been sent off somewhere else in what I suspect is the castle. The rift has sent us to the closest…” He paused and said, “Seems as if we haven’t much time to dawdle. We have visitors.” The mage took his weapon in hand.

Shouting and splashing bounced off the stone walls. “Blood of the Elder One! Where did they come from?” The guards ran towards the barred door.

“Dorian, I don’t have my staff,” Cyrlen reached for the knife in his belt, then he had a better idea. “Give me your staff.”

“I—pardon?” The mage cast him a bewildered glance. “You do realize you can do magic without a staff?” The guards struggled to open the door.

Stepping forward, Cyrlen snapped out a hand to grab the wooden staff. “I promise you, it’s just until I find another.”

“Herald, it’s ill advised to just grab a man’s staff without his permission,” the mage’s voice dipped, and he wore a small smirk. “Perhaps at another time I can show you how to properly grasp a man’s staff.”

Heat flushed Cyrlen’s cheeks. The barred door squeaked open. Surprise shot through him. Reflexively, he charged energy through the wooden weapon and threw a trap at the feet of the guards.

“Placing a fire rune in water wouldn’t be my first choice-“ Dorian began.

The trap went off and the two guards let out a cry. Water surged from the explosion and a large wave of water came down on them; its icy touch slapped the air from Cyrlen’s lungs. He opened his mouth to gasp for air. Instead he got a gulp of water. It tasted similar to swamp water, thick and full of unidentified bits. Coughing, Cyrlen wiped the water from his face.

“Ah. Well. I didn’t think I needed a bath. Perhaps I was wrong,” Dorian coughed, his arm was raised to try and deflect the splash. He squinted past it and peered out at the rippled water. “I wonder where our foes are—ah! There. Do you want to soak us some more?”

Stifling a sigh, Cyrlen said, “I am sorry—if you had just given me the staff I wouldn’t have felt the pressure of two foes throwing their blades at us.”

A laugh thick with disbelief left Dorian, “And if _you_ had not manhandled _my_ staff—ah look. They’re rising.”

Cyrlen wrapped an arm around the mage and pulled him back. “This way, I have an idea.” He pulled them towards a stray box and prayed that it would hold their weight.

“Please do tell,” Dorian eyed the box, as if he were thinking the same.

“Do you happen to know of any electric magic?” Cyrlen glanced towards him and smiled lightly.

The mage’s brows popped up and a smile spread his lips. “Ah. Why yes, I do. Isn’t it a bit dangerous to risk such a thing? We are soaking. I wonder why-”

“I know I messed up,” Cyrlen sighed. Carefully he stepped up onto the box and pulled the mage up with him. The box shook under their weight, and he tightened his hold around Dorian. “We should be fine.”

“Should, he says,” the mage sighed. “Well, here’s for nothing.” An electric shock fired from Dorian’s fingers and landed in the water. Quickly, Cyrlen fed the spark and it shot across the water, feeding right towards the metallic beacons waddling through the shimmering pool.

The guards let out thick screams, seizing under the electric current. In mere moments, they disappeared underneath the water’s dark surface. A surprised laugh left Dorian, “Aha! It worked. And I’m still alive. I always count those as a good signs, don’t you?”

A breathless laugh left Cyrlen and he gently slid off the box. He reached a hand for Dorian, smiling softly. “Well, seems as if we might make it out of here. Wherever it is he brought us.”

“I am not so sure if it’s _‘wherever’_ so much as ‘ _whenever’_ , Herald.” Dorian took his hand. The warmth of it tingled up Cyrlen’s arm. The mage carefully stepped down and looked around them. “That water is going to get into _everything,_ isn’t it?”

“Hold on,” Cyrlen felt his stomach twist with unease. Swallowing, he crossed his arms in order to hide the soft tremble in his hands. “Could you clarify?”

“Oh? Well, the water is going to soak right through my trousers-”

“No,” Cyrlen blushed, “the ‘whenever’ part.”

“Ah,” Dorian reached up to smooth his mustache. He popped a hip and studied the air in thought. “I do believe that Alexius used the amulet as a focus. It sent us through time.”

A dull chill settled over Cyrlen, causing goosebumps to spring on his skin. “The time rifts,” he muttered to himself, his eyes drawn to the ground. “We could be anywhere… any _when_.” His heart stuttered and he looked around them, as if the date would suddenly pop up on one of the walls. “Do you think we went back in time?” His heart clenched and he reached for the amulet in his pocket. A breath seized in his chest.

His pocket was empty. He rammed his hands into another pocket, and shakily began ripping open the small bags on his belt. “Are you… missing something?” Dorian raised a brow.

A breath choked Cyrlen and his eyes blurred with tears. His skin rushed to fill with heat. “It’s not here.” He stepped off the stone platform and splashed into the water. With trembling hands he searched through the dark water in hopes of seeing a glint. Breath hitching, he dropped to his hands and knees. The floor underneath the water was slick and grimy against his fingers. His eyes burned.

He shot to his feet and clumsily threw himself into the water a few feet over. His knees slammed against the cold stone, and pain echoed up his legs. Desperately, he clawed through the water in search of the amulet. A bubble filled his throat, pressing tears into his eyes. Panic and worry hollowed his chest. _Gone, gone, no it can’t be gone…_ He sat up and let out a shaky breath. “No, h-he! No, it _can’t._ ”

A hand grasped tightly onto his arm, yanking him up onto his feet, “Lavellan! What is it?”

Cyrlen flashed the mage a surprised glance. “No, no. He’s-I-It’s gone—I-I can’t, I can’t…” Shoulders curling, Cyrlen covered his face with his hands. “He’s _gone._ ” His voice cracked and he let out a broken noise.

“You’re not…” Dorian’s voice softened. “You’re not making much sense here. Deep breaths. What is going on? Who is gone?”

Shaking his head, Cyrlen took in a gasping breath and thickly said, “T-The amulet, i-it’s gone. I dropped it. It has to be… it has to be somewhere around here. It’s…” Hands reached out and grasped tightly onto his shoulders, trying to ground him. Blinking, Cyrlen breathlessly tried to calm down. He tasted salty tears on his tongue. Lips trembling, Cyrlen gulped and whispered, “It... it is very important to me.”

“I could have guessed as much,” a sad smile pulled Dorian’s lips. His hold loosened and he said, “You dropped your staff. You don’t think you could have dropped it too?”

A long sigh left Cyrlen and he shakily nodded. His tears thickened and he choked, “It… it was the last thing I had. Th-The last…” He stepped forward and threw his arms around the mage, aching to feel some warmth from another body. With a shaky breath, he buried his face into Dorian’s shoulder. The mage stiffened in surprise.

After a few moments, the man sighed and gently reached up to carefully pat between Cyrlen’s shoulders. The gesture felt empty. “I…” Dorian began. “How about I help you look around for a bit?” His breath caught, and Cyrlen could practically hear him forming his words. “It is… in our best interests to figure this situation out.”

Pulling back, Cyrlen stared numbly into the water. His took in a breath, stealing a moment to compose himself. “You’re right.” He didn’t know what he was expecting. Skin prickling, he nodded numbly. “I suppose we should get going.”

Dorian paused, his breath hesitating with a thought. His hand wiped the air, the beginning of a question. A flash of regret filled the mage’s face, before he pulled a masked smile over his lips. “Shall we?”

“There’s probably some sort of key on those guards,” Cyrlen turned away from the man and stepped towards them. Reaching up, he wiped away at the lingering tears. A bubble of sorrow still lingered in his throat, but he would tuck it away and save it for another time. “I’ll check.”

 

* * *

 

_It’s only been a week since the Herald has died._

_Everything is falling apart. It’s almost as if he were the one standing between us and our enemy. Now our shields are gone, and they know._

_And they are taking their sweet time, watching us squirm like frightened little bugs._

 

* * *

 

Their steps echoed faintly off the stone walls. Violent red light from the lyrium lit most of their way, and started to give Dorian a headache. He stifled another sigh as his mind wandered back to just ten minutes before. It was a flip of a switch. There had been someone different, a broken man with nothing left. A man who needed someone there, who had needed _him._ Then, like that, he was the Herald again, face of stone with glowing eyes in the dim light. Silence weighed the air, interrupted only by their feet tapping against the stone. Dorian’s heart ached with quiet regret. The Herald walked purposefully and quietly through the stone halls, seeking the floor for anything of use.

Dorian couldn’t help but feel like he had been offered a gift and had slapped it away. And the pang in his chest only strengthened the drumming headache behind his temples. He allowed the silence, if just for a bit. Every attempt of conversation was met with, _“Huh”_ or _“Hm”—_ very eloquent of the Herald.

They quietly made their way up another flight of stairs. A wooden door stood in front of them, and the Herald stopped. He sighed and turned towards Dorian, eyes downcast. “I… am sorry, Dorian.”

“Pardon?” Dorian raised a brow. “For what?” He felt a quiet ache in his chest, and hoped to banish it.

“For… the way I acted,” Lavellan’s eyes drew up towards him. A whisper of sorrow filled his eyes. Dorian could only imagine how much this man hid behind the stone mask he wore. “When I lost the amulet, I should have… been more composed.”

Ah. This was perhaps worse than simply being a terrible comforter. He felt like he kicked an already whimpering dog. “Don’t apologize,” Dorian said. His skin prickled lightly with warmth and he waved a hand in the air. “If anyone’s to apologize, it’s me. I… am rusty, I suppose, when it comes to comforting.”

The elf’s skin flushed a deep color, and his ears lowered miserably. “You shouldn’t have had to offer comfort. It was childish and unexpected.”

“Look,” Dorian stepped forward and rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. It felt a lot thinner than it looked under his hand. “Everyone’s expecting you to carry this all on your own. It’s alright to break down. Do not apologize for it.” Hesitating, Dorian shifted on his feet. He was a loss for words. How did one comfort? That’s hardly something he truly has experimented with.

Sure, he’s found ways of _coping,_ but he wouldn’t recommend that to anyone else. “I’m not well versed… in these matters.” Dorian admitted, reluctantly.

The Herald’s face lifted with a whisper of a smile. “And here I thought I was being the awkward one.” His brows pulled together and he quietly said, “Thank you… for trying. I will try to… keep it together from here on out.”

Crossing his arms, Dorian shrugged. “Well, if you do feel as if you need a shoulder, I suppose mine works well enough. The fabric is soft, at least.”

A real smile softened Lavellan’s face and his eyes fell to look Dorian up and down. “Well, the armor it’s… very Tevinter.”

“And what is _that_ supposed to mean?” Dorian raised a brow and held his chin in his hand. “That it’s utterly dashing, other than your boring drab?”

The Herald chuckled. “Well, I’m certainly not _flashy._ ” He reached forward to gently knock one of the metal plates that wasn’t covered with fabric. “I wonder, if someone hung you from the ceiling if you would make a decent chandelier.”

“Decent?” Dorian rested an offended hand on his chest. “I think you mean I would be a _magnificent_ chandelier. Alas, I think I have more use on the ground.”

“How many layers are there on this, anyhow?” The elf leaned forward to peer underneath the fabric at the other flashy metals. Dorian felt his skin tighten with heat. “It must take you at least an hour and a half to put it on.”

Dorian’s lips curled in delight. He purred, “I am a lot quicker at taking it off.”

A blush quickly flooded the Herald’s skin and he straightened. It was _so_ satisfying to watch the elf become flustered. “I-I… well. Good.” Lavellan said, eyes cast aside. “I… yes. Um. Yes.” He coughed into his arm and turned back towards the door. “I suppose we should move on.”

Practically grinning, Dorian waved him on. “Shall we?”

The door swung open and Lavellan marched through it. He turned rather abruptly and held a hand out. “Your staff, if you please.”

A long sigh left Doran and his brow fell. “You know, a mage doesn’t _need_ a staff?”

“I…” The Herald waved a hand through the air. “Dorian. Give me your staff.”

Dorian stepped forward. “Oh don’t worry,” he said wryly, lips curling. “I’ll protect you.” Pushing the elf behind him, he withdrew his staff and tossed a burst of flame at one of the two guards that were rushing for them. The room opened up to be rather large, with metal flooring that was the only thing that protected them from plunging down into dark depths. How comforting. Dorian threw down three traps in front of them, his fiery runes inscribing rather easily in the metal.

Fire shots brushed past him—from Lavellan. The warmth of his magic rushed over Dorian, like a comforting hold.

A guard caught on fire and started screaming, and the other stepped right onto two of the three runes. The air exploded with heat, billowing Dorian’s robe. Surprised, the guard side-stepped right off the side of the metal flooring. Their screams filled the air.

“Well, that hardly seems fair.” The Herald said behind him.

“What, me handling my own staff or-” Dorian began.

The elf shot forward, yanking the staff from his hold. He whipped it through the air, narrowly blocking a sword that would have taken off a good chunk of Dorian’s head; and well, he rather liked his head how it was. Seconds later, a barrier fell over him, prickling Dorian’s skin.

Lavellan twisted through the air, staff cracking against the side of the guard’s head. He moved with lithe grace, whipping the wooden staff through the air. His body twisted away from the blade, and the staff was there when he couldn’t dodge the shining blade. In seconds, he flattened the guard onto their back.

“Well, that’s one way.” Dorian said.

Turning to him, the Herald raised a brow. “A few moments longer, that sword would have stolen a great deal of your charm.”

A smile lifted Dorian’s lips, and he subconsciously ran a hand over the side of his head. “The world would have mourned for years to come.”

“They would have had to erect a statue, just to help the people come to terms with the loss. We could only pray that the artist would do well in capturing your face,” Lavellan’s face lifted with a humored smile. “Can I have the staff?”

Dorian let out a dramatic gasp. “Flattery? If you think that will get you anywhere, you’re wrong. Did your mother not ever tell you not to steal?”

The Herald rolled his eyes playfully, fighting to bite back a smile. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to share?”

“Frankly, I think they got tired of me sharing.” Dorian stepped towards him and grabbed hold of his weapon. The wood felt familiar underneath his palm. “What was it? Oh, of course, ‘Dorian dear, the neighbor sent a note to remind you to wear clothes on your balcony.’”

A larger smile took over Lavellan’s lips and his skin colored with a blush. The blush caused freckles that Dorian hadn’t noticed before to pop out against his skin. With a tug, the elf brought the staff closer to his chest and grasped the head of it with a firm hand. “I’m not tired of you sharing.”

“Flirting for my staff, are we?” Dorian dropped his voice and shook his head, playfully disciplining. A smirk gently curved his lips and he leaned in closer to the elf, searching the vibrant color of the Herald’s eyes. “Tsk, tsk.”

“F-Flirting?” The Herald’s eyes widened and he stammered, “I? No! I hadn’t meant-” He swallowed and dropped the weapon. “Y-You can have it! I-I… I am just-” Clumsily, he stepped away from Dorian and tripped on a discarded sword. “That, that was on purpose.”

 

* * *

 

_I… I can’t remember what date it is._

_My mind is slipping away from me. I’m not strong enough for this, for any of this._

_They mistook me for the Herald._

_All elves look the same to them, I suppose. They blamed me. Called me a traitor._

_They’ve forgotten about me, here in this cell._

_I hope infection sets in soon._

_Maybe it already has._

 

* * *

 

The cold stone ignored the layers from his robes, cooling his back. Vacantly, he stared down at the stone floor. His heart beat in his palm, and he counted every single twitch. The quick sounds of rustling kept Cyrlen where he was, feet planted in the ground and his mind stationary. But his heart still whispered fear, and his fingers clutched tightly onto the fabrics of his armor.

“Some of these things make me wonder why. Why would someone decide to throw it into a sack,”  Dorian broke the thick silence. “Why not give something _good_ for us adventure types? Why can’t there be an amazing helmet or perhaps _staff_ hidden in one of these things? But no. No. ‘I have an extra dirty old sock, so I’m going to shove it in a sack.’”

Closing his eyes, Cyrlen took in the careful tilt of Dorian’s words. They offered comfort. He breathed out carefully, and cracked his eyes open to see the mage staring up at him.

“Herald… is everything alright?” Dorian watched him carefully.

A blush prickled Cyrlen’s skin and he felt like a fool _._ The man probably saw him as some weak little child trying to play pretend and be a grown up. A forced breath left his lips and Cyrlen quietly said, “The red lyrium… it grew out of her.” A dark look passed Dorian’s face and he reached up to rub his chin. Cyrlen’s shoulders curled and he dropped his gaze, “I keep thinking of the lyrium growing out of the walls. And…” His brows pulled together. “An entire _year_ has passed.”

“You’ve missed all the grand parties, a shame,” Dorian said, his eyes strained. “You’re not thinking of giving up, are you?”

A long sigh emptied from Cyrlen’s lungs and he shook his head. “No.” He studied a small flame on the head of a broken statue. Its light flickered across the colorless walls. “You’re right. Dawdling on what has happened isn’t going to change anything. I suppose… I had hoped we went back.”

“Back? Why would you possibly want to go back in time?” The mage abandoned the sack and headed towards him.

A breath filled Cyrlen’s lungs and he reached into his pocket for something that wasn’t there. His face fell and he looked away from the mage to study a closed wooden door. Beyond it could be anything: another victim, more guards. Perhaps even this ‘Elder One’. “We don’t really get to choose these things, do we? Well, I’m rested. Shall we?”

The mage stopped and studied Cyrlen’s expression. He dipped his head and gently said, “After you.”

Cyrlen stepped away from the wall and brushed past Dorian. The door’s knob felt cool under his touch when he opened the door. Muttering brushed his ears, and his heart froze inside his chest. He breathed in carefully, counting the seconds before he breathed out. Carefully, he stepped out into the water.

“...no, uh… where it is well, uh…” The voice warped with corruption, rough and thick. It was a mock of someone familiar. With a grunt of frustration, the voice said, “Remember, stupid! They can’t take that. Not that...”

His skin felt like a husk to a hollow shell. Tongue dry, he stepped across the flooded floor. Cyrlen clenched his jaw when he saw her. Sera grasped onto the bars, resting her head against the cool metal as she muttered to herself. A red glow sparked from her skin, whispering of corruption in her veins.

Thick guilt flooded into his lungs, choking him. Cyrlen’s brows pulled together. He stepped up to the bars and stared sadly down at her. “Hello, da’assan,” he whispered. Tears built against the back of his eyes.

A gasp left Sera’s lips and she stared up at Cyrlen. Fear widened her eyes and she threw herself away from the bars. “No! No, no no… no. You-you can’t...” She backed up against a lyrium crystal, fear thick in her eyes. Her pupils glowed red. “You’re dead. Dead don’t come back.”

Her words felt like a dull blade tearing into his skin. Cyrlen reached up to hold the bar. It held a ghost of her warmth. “Sera,” he said gently. “Everything is fine, I swear to you. I’m not dead. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Like I can believe it,” she shook her head, brows knitted together. “You’re some demon or whatever.”

“Oh for the love of-” Dorian let out a sigh and stepped up beside Cyrlen. He crossed his arms and frowned. “No one is dead. I believe I would know if I was dead. At least, I would like to think so. Alexius used time magic.”

“Talk sense or shut it!” Sera snapped.

The mage let out a quiet “tch.” Cyrlen shook his head and glanced up at her. “Sera, there has to be something better to haunt you other than Dorian.”

She glanced up at him, her eyes open and wounded. “You… you _disappeared,_ you know? Just… gone. And....” Wrapping her arms around herself, she lowered her head and let out a long sigh. “I suppose you don’t know.”

Using the key he had gotten earlier, Cyrlen unlocked the door. It creaked loudly as it opened. “What happened, Sera?”

“The day you died?” Her eyes flickered up to him and she took a half step towards him. Sera’s face hardened, voice raw when she said, “I ran out of arrows making them pay.” Her eyes shined. “Then it didn’t matter anymore. You were… gone.”

Shoulders slumping, Cyrlen stared up at her sadly. “Sorry won’t change much-”

“It doesn’t.” Sera shifted in her feet and raked her fingers through her hair. “There were so many… demons. _Everywhere._ A-And…” She shuddered. “If you are real, I’ll make ‘em pay. I’ll spit on them, even as I’m going down.”

“There’s my da’assan.” A sad smile pulled Cyrlen’s lips.

“You and y-your _elfie-ness._ Use real words, arse.” Sera choked stubbornly. She stepped up to him and lightly threw a punch into his gut. “Stupid.”

“Little arrow,” Cyrlen corrected. He gently reached up to correct a hair on her head. “Did you… see anything, that day? An amulet?”

“A what? No. I… don’t remember that.” She frowned and gently hit his hand away. “Come on. I need to shoot something.”

 

* * *

 

_There’s a song… I can’t remember it. Someone sang it to me, when I was little. I… can’t remember their face._

_There are some things I remember. A soft tilt of a smile._

_Warm eyes, gentle hands._

_Open arms._

_I vaguely remember the tune._

_Ba dum… dum dum, ba…._

_Doo…._

_I keep passing out from fever and infection. It hurts to write, but there’s no one else to listen to me._

_Not anymore._

 

* * *

A headache quietly whispered up the back of his neck, behind his ear. It thrummed quietly like a little bug, buzzing its little wings. But it was the lyrium. It glowed and stretched across the walls, lighting most of the halls and stony rooms. Cyrlen rubbed his temples in attempt to ease the pressure building in his skull.

“Just wait for it to start whispering,” Sera said, her face pulled into a frown, eyes staring at nothing in particular. “It whispers, and it won’t shut it.”

Eyes sorrowing, Cyrlen let out a faint breath. “We’re going to try and fix this.”

“In theory,” Dorian watched him closely. “Of course, we’ll _try_.”

“Trying’s good. Cornflower does good when he tries.” Sera looked thoughtfully between them. “So… it’s all nothing, isn’t it? It’s just… poof! Year’s gone, right?”

“That’s the jist of it,” Cyrlen sighed, stepping up to another wooden door.

“You dropped it, your staff.” Sera smiled lightly, staring up at the ceiling. “People were calling it holy. Trying to figure out the marks you put there. They fought over it. It’s gone, just like that. No one knows where.”

The door creaked open, the noise cutting up Cyrlen’s spine. He stepped into the room, readying a barrier if needed. Faint prayers whispered through the doorway, and another row of cells lined the floor in front of him. “Wonder if they thought my tight breeches were holy. Did it become a new style?”

Sera snort-laughed and said, “I missed those tight breeches.” She snickered again and said, “Lord Too-Tight-of-Breeches.”

The soft mutters quieted. Cyrlen stepped into the room, and searched the cells. His eyes landed on another familiar face. Heart aching, he stepped up towards the cell. Eyes sorrowing, he gently said, “Good day, Cass.”

The Seeker stared at him with wide eyes, sitting on the floor of her cell. “Sweet Andraste. You’ve returned to us. Do we have another chance?”Her hand reached towards him and stopped short. “Maker forgive me. I failed you. I failed everyone.”

“No,” Cyrlen crouched down to meet her gaze. The red lyrium’s poison flickered like a sputtering candle off her skin. “Cassandra,” his voice broke, “I’ve failed you all.” A stone thickened in his throat and he reached for her. “We’re working to fix this.”

“I was there,” she whispered, leaning towards him. Her eyes shined with pain. “The magister obliterated you with a simple gesture.”

“Not quite.” Dorian stepped up to the door and gently unlocked it. He pushed the cell open and leaned against the bars, his shin pressing against Cyrlen in the process. “Alexius sent us forward in time. So, it’s been a year for you, and only a mere half hour for us.”

“The plan is to get back.” Cyrlen glanced up at him before he looked back at her.

“Go back? In time?” The Seeker pushed up onto her feet and stepped towards them. “Then… you can make it so that none of this took place.”

Rising to his feet, Cyrlen bumped his shoulder into Dorian. “Those are his thoughts.”

“They’re such pretty thoughts, like little jewels.” Dorian wiggled his fingers in the air, eyes brightening with humor.

A smile pulled Cassandra’s lips. “I’m glad you haven’t lost your humor. That’s what they talked about the most, when you were gone.” Her face saddened. “How you kept us smiling.”

Chest aching, Cyrlen’s lips pulled with a breath of a smile. “Thank goodness that’s what you all remember. Not my clumsiness.”

Cassandra laughed sadly, “Those, too. Varric sure liked to put a spin on those.” She stopped and blinked. “The amulet.”

“Yes?” Cyrlen’s breath caught.

“It… broke.” The Seeker searched through her pockets and produced a small pouch. “In the midst of it all, it was smashed. I was only able to secure a little piece of it. I am… so sorry.”

“You kept it with you?” Cyrlen took the bag. Fingers shaking, he pulled it open and took the piece out. It was only a fragment of what the amulet had been, with small edge of the jewel and gold. “After all this time…”

“It was… important to you. I couldn’t think of letting it go.” Cassandra lowered her head. “It kept me going when all else seemed at lost.” Her eyes flickered up at him, open and hopeful.

A soft breath left Cyrlen and he felt himself deflate. Stepping forward he wrapped her up in her arms. Her body stiffened in surprise, a moment before she returned his hold. “Thank you,” he whispered. “We’re going to fix this. Or die trying.”

Voice thick, Cassandra whispered, “Thank the Maker… _thank you._ ”

 

* * *

 

_I can’t tell what is a dream and what isn’t._

_I can’t tell if I am already dead._

_It hurts. Everywhere. Anywhere. My fingers shake, and I have lost feeling in my legs._

_Three days will pass, me writing each day, only to wake up and notice all the notes are gone. As if it never happened._

_Sometimes I scream. I scream and scream on end, hoping someone hears me. Hoping that anything hears me. I just want this to end._

_I want to be with my family again, whoever that was. This sickness is making me forget._

 

* * *

 

The faint light of the red lyrium didn’t suit the Herald. It outlined his face harshly, causing his eyes to glow the way that Sera’s and Cassandra’s did. The thought of him being poisoned as they were sent a small spear of ice into Dorian’s core. Lavellan sighed and shifted on his feet, turning the page over before folding it and putting it into his pocket. “The breach made this all possible,” he said, quietly. The mask he wore was breaking.

Its fragileness showed in the pain and guilt that would twist Lavellan’s face whenever he looked at any of the three women that accompanied them. The spymaster had almost been that breaking point. Almost.

Lavellan sighed, tapping his foot. “Alexius was attempting to go back in time, to fix what happened to Felix.” Pain cracked his voice and he cleared his throat. Sorrow added an extra shine to his eyes. “This Elder fuss wanted him to ‘fix’ what happened at the Conclave.”

His eyes darkened and he stared off at the wall, lost in the thought that plagued him. A quiet ache of yearning hit Dorian. It hit him from nowhere, like an assassin in the night dropping poison into a midnight drink.

Lungs thick and air thin, Dorian wanted to set the Herald’s head on his shoulder. He wished to trace the scar that Lavellan had mentioned those nights before, to memorize its shape and story. His body ached to feel the rise of the elf’s chest against his. To hear the quiet woes that the Herald trapped under layers and layers of carefully constructed words and stone.

The feeling passed rather quickly, leaving Dorian’s skin feeling a bit too tight. Lavellan glanced up at him, searching his gaze. It’s been too long, Dorian decided, since he’s sat down and had a nice drink after a round of horizontal refreshments. It was mere lust, he told himself. Anyone would want comfort after all of _this._

 

* * *

 

_9:42 Dragon_

_Ruins of Haven_

_I’ve come across what seems to be the remains of an old Inquisition recruit. I cannot discern if they were feminine or masculine. Most of what they were has been destroyed by rot. And they stink like shit._

_They have a lot of writings, most of which are indiscernible scrawl, and others that tells tales of this “herald”._

_The poor bloke was left here all alone, left to starve._

_I wonder if these journals are worth anything._

_Praise the Elder One for these findings._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hello there," the strange figure from before sniffs and rubs what you think is their hands together. "It's you again. So... you want to...?" They wiggle their brows together.
> 
> A powerful wave of nausea rushes through you and your mouth flops open uselessly. Your brain can't decide of you want to cry out "no" in horror or reluctantly whisper "yes".
> 
> The stranger grins and you feel it like a slug crawling on your skin. "The tag is #GraciousManBosoms." 
> 
> You blink. "What?" 
> 
> They let out a long sigh, as if you asked what your own name was. "If you want to post anything regarding this fanfic, the tag will be #GraciousManBosoms."
> 
> Mouth pursing in thought, you shake your head. "Does the author even have a Tumblr?"
> 
> "Bah! You don't even listen to you? It's [Kloud](http://kloud.tumblr.com). Go ahead. Click the link." They point a finger right towards your face and you wish it wouldn't be so close. "Remember now, [#GraciousManBosoms](https://www.tumblr.com/search/GraciousManBosoms)."


	5. Fractures in Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That Moment When:
> 
> The world is falling out from under your feet and you can't get a grasp on anything and your brother is like, so dead, so dead. Like. Literally. 
> 
> Then you snap at a puppy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took longer than expected to crank out this chapter. I had hoped to be doing about a chapter per week, but school is coming up fast and I'm in the process of moving, so can I have your patience? Pretty please...? I-Is that think you're doing with your hand a yes, or a no?
> 
> As per the norm: [Caitticat](http://psychoticcupcake.tumblr.com/). Thank you. I will never thank you enough for all your work. I owe you practically everything. Thank you, again. You guys should definitely check her out. She's *amazing!*
> 
> (And also a thank you for Dina (you know who you are) for assuring me that I'm not crazy!)

Everything looked green. The world looked stained with the fade, its grip tainting stone and skin. In front of them stood a large, towering door. It stretched toward the ceiling, baring intricate designs that perhaps meant something to someone else. Even the door had not escaped the green taint. Maybe it wasn’t so much of the world, but Cyrlen’s perception. He couldn’t trust his eyes.

There wasn’t much of himself that he could trust right now. The lock to the door stared at him, restless. It waited for the keys that wore the blood of at least thirty people. And on the other side of the door stood the last piece to their trial. Their single hope. His lungs tingled with paralysis. _What if it doesn’t work?_ His palms were warm with anxiety, clammy and uncertain.

An image of the impending future stretched out before him like a long, dark chasm. It wrapped itself around him, squeezing his lungs and milking the air from his chest. This future was as real as it wasn’t. Green skies, scarred faces, ruptured voices. He wanted to wake up, except his eyes were already open.

Someone placed a hand on his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cassandra. Her sharp eyes were dulled with a year of pain and lost hope. “You’ve seen the world as it is now. You can’t let that stay,” she said, her voice quiet. He wondered if she knew.  

Cyrlen looked away from the door, towards Leliana and Sera. He tried to breathe in.

“The breach has to be closed,” Leliana stared at him, anger bright behind her eyes. He wondered how much she blamed him. How much she wished to spit venom at him. If she did, she hid it well. “You must stop the murder of the Empress.”

“And kick their arses. Stop the horde of demon bitch-tits.” Sera shifted on her feet and crossed her arms. “Just… don’t do the dying bit.”

Cyrlen humored them with a smile before it inevitably fell. Numby, he nodded and turned back towards the door. _What if I fail?_ He inserted the keys and watched the lock glow. A loud _click_ bounced across the cold, gray-green walls. _What if I can’t change anything?_ The door groaned and slid open; a large room unveiled before him, lit by blue fire and a large hearth.

_What if I’m not enough?_

A chill dragged its claws up his back as he stepped forward. Fingers brushed his palm and stopped him. The touch was feather-light but its warmth and certainty pushed a small wave of assurance through him. “Trying is good.” Dorian stood beside him, turning to search his eyes. “I’ve heard you’re very good at trying.”

The air felt thick, and Cyrlen nodded jerkily. He blinked back tears and squeezed the mage’s hand as tightly as he could. It was the only thank-you he could manage at the moment. Swallowing, he led them across the long room towards the magister who stood illuminated atop crumbling stair steps. Cyrlen pulled his hand away from Dorian’s.

His hand continued to hold the warmth from the phantom touch.

Flames of the fire danced back and forth, unsettled by the heavy air. Cyrlen stopped a few feet away, heavy with sorrow. “Are you blissfully unaware of what you’ve done to the world? Or is it what you wanted all along?” He asked, shaking his head. “The world is ugly… perhaps you just ignore it. But I don’t know how you manage it. The skies are suffering. Demons thrive and sunder this world.”

Heavy silence followed the end of Cyrlen’s statement. The magister shifted subtly. “I always knew you would come. I knew I hadn’t ended you. I waited and waited for my mistake to come back.” He turned to look at Cyrlen, eyes drowned in sadness. “I did this for Felix.” A shaky breath left Alexius and he shook his head in dismay. “You wouldn’t understand, what-”

Anger rushed like melted metal through Cyrlen’s veins. Thickly, he said, “I understand perfectly well.”

The magister studied him for a moment’s breath. “You can’t possibly know-”

“I know the pain of outliving someone you’ve raised and cared for,” Cyrlen snapped, voice thick. “I know the pain of realizing that you’ll never see them grow older. I’ve _lived,_ ” his voice, “the agony of realizing you didn’t protect them. That you promised to be there for them and you weren’t.” Cyrlen clenched his fists. The pouch with the broken amulet piece sat heavily in his pocket. “Don’t start with what I _wouldn’t_ understand because I understand far more than you’ll ever come to realize.”

Alexius stared at Cyrlen, his eyes grave. “I…” He began, as if to say an apology. Then he let out a weighted breath, and his brows collapsed together. “It doesn’t matter anymore…” He shook his head. “None of it-”

A blur of movement erupted in the corner of Cyrlen’s vision. Leliana stood behind a husk of a man, with a blade pressed to his throat. Her eyes were tight with anger, lips lifted in a snarl.

“Felix!” The Magister cried, reaching out for him.

Face pulled with shock, Dorian asked, “That’s Felix?” He clenched his jaw and furrowed his brows. “Maker’s _breath!_ Alexius! What have you done?”

The young man—Felix—looked like a bag full of bones, eyes empty of thought and cheeks hollow.

“He would have died,” Alexius choked. “He would have…” His eyes fell back over to his son, face tight with worry. “I saved him. P-Please… don’t hurt him. Don’t hurt my son. I’ll do anything you ask.”

Cyrlen’s breath caught. He slowly shook his head. “Alexius. You can’t think that _that_ is a life worth living.”

“Give us the amulet,” Dorian tore his eyes from Felix, voice straining.

“Let him go a-and I’ll give you anything you want!” The Magister begged. He brought a fist to his mouth. “Just let him go.”

The spymaster glanced up at Alexius, eyes cold with a wild fury. “I want the world back.” Her blade sliced through the young man’s neck with lethal ease.

Alexius let out a cry, “No! No! _Felix!”_ He watched in defeat as his son dropped to the floor, nothing more than a lifeless husk. He rasped quick, thin breaths as he stared at the floor. Anger twisted his face and he yowled, “No!” Magic rippled through the air, and smacked right into the spymaster. The force threw her into the shadows.

Instantly Cyrlen threw a barrier up around them all.  Magic pelted them, and the magister disappeared from the platform. Someone moved to stand behind Cyrlen, their backs pressed together. He could feel their muscles work through his robe. Turning, he spotted Dorian standing behind him, face pulled in tight concentration. Spells illuminated his face, outlining his jaw and the bump in his nose. Cyrlen’s stomach tightened.

The magister reappeared in front of Cyrlen, pulling him from his distraction.

“Here you are,” Dorian turned the staff towards him.

A small smile lifted Cyrlen’s lips and he nodded. Pooling his mana into the staff, he threw fire traps at the feet of the magister, and tossed a lightning spell towards him. The air shook with the explosion.

Arrows pelted through the air, bouncing off the shield Alexius put up for himself. Magic thickened the air like soup. The fragility of the veil pressed against Cyrlen, and he wondered what would happen if they tore it up beyond repair.

Cassandra dashed across the floor and slammed her sword down on the barrier. It broke apart and the magister let out a cry of surprise and collapsed onto the floor. Moments later, he disappeared.

“Your turn,” Cyrlen turned towards Dorian and gave him the staff.

The mage gave him a thankful glance, just as the air sucked in a breath and popped with a rift clawing into existence. “Well, that’s not fair.”

“Stupid, stupid!” Sera shouted. “More demons! Always demons!”

Demons spilled from the rift, pooling onto the floor, and the mark hummed pain from his palm up his arm. Cyrlen slipped out his knife and clutched onto it tightly. Lifting a hand, he released fire bolts through the air. The magic warmed his palm. “Potion!” Cassandra cried, hand reaching out towards Cyrlen. Quickly, he chucked the green bottle towards her. She caught it with ease and hurriedly downed its contents. It was the last one. A demon slithered up behind her.

Cyrlen shot an electric current towards it. The demon let out a mixed howl of anger and pain. It started towards him, eyes filled with rage. “Stop making so many friends, would you?” Dorian grunted and quickly laid a fire rune in front of them. The creature hit it. Seconds later, the pieces left of it were sucked up by the rift.

A slight shift in the air told Cyrlen the veil was available to be mended. “I can’t help it,” Cyrlen felt his lips curl with old humor and quickly lifted a hand towards the rift. “I’m just so friendly.” The mark burned, and a bright green thread sliced towards the rift. He felt it coil around the open wound before yanking his hand back to stitch it closed.

“You’re rather good at that,” Dorian smirked.

“Ah, I’ve had the ability since birth,” Cyrlen shot a small, wry smile back towards him. Wordlessly, Dorian handed him the staff.

The magister appeared before them again, shooting a spell straight towards Cassandra. With a deep breath, Cyrlen laid a trap right at the man’s feet and shot forward. He twisted the staff around, shooting fire. Infusing energy through the wood, he sent an electric shot straight towards Alexius. He darted through the air and slammed the butt-end of the staff down on the back of the old man’s head. The _crack_ of the hit resonated through the staff up into his arms

Just like that, Alexius collapsed to the floor. Breathing heavily, Cyrlen lowered the staff and dipped his head. “That’s the end of it.”

The room fell silent, interrupted only by their breathlessness and careless steps. Time seemed to stutter. Another death weighed on Cyrlen’s shoulders, wrapping around him. Its stickiness dripped into his soul. A second later, Dorian appeared beside him, face fighting against sorrow. The mage’s breath caught and slowly he crouched down by the body. “He wanted to die, didn’t he?”

Swallowing, Cyrlen hesitated before he placed a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. A small breath left Dorian and he shook his head. “I can’t imagine it. The lies he told himself, the justifications…” He glanced up at Cyrlen, brows pulled tightly together. “And he couldn’t realize he lost Felix long ago.” A sigh left him and he rose to his feet. “Oh… Alexius.”

Cyrlen shifted his feet, just enough to lean against the mage. He stared down at the broken magister at their feet, eyes filled with sorrow. “This… can’t be any easier for you.”

A faint breath left Dorian and he straightened, looking towards Cyrlen. “Once he was a man I compared to all others. Sad, isn’t it?” He stole himself a moment before he lifted an amulet into the air. “This is the same amulet he used before. I think it’s the same we made in Minrathous. That’s a relief.” The mage hid his wounds like closing the curtains on a window. Just like that, Dorian was there, perfect and unaffected.

Though Cyrlen knew better. Lightly, he led Dorian away from the body on the floor. “How long do you think it would take you to work through the spell?”

The mage followed him, studying the green amulet in his hand. “I would need an hour to work through the spell. Then hopefully we’ll be back.”

“An hour?” Leliana stopped short in front of them, her gnarled face pulled into a mix of worry and anger. “You have to go _now!_ You can’t wait that long!”

A distant roar shook the castle grounds. Cyrlen felt his heart leap into his throat, and he grasped tightly onto the staff in his hands.

“Oh, oh no… no, no…” Sera stared up at the ceiling, circling around.

“The Elder One,” Cassandra muttered, eyes full of sadness. “You have to hurry.” Her face hardened with resolve. “We’ll hold the main door-”

The reality of it fell on Cyrlen. Time was falling away from their feet, and soon they would have nothing to stand on. “Cassandra,” he felt a shot of panic. He abandoned the staff and darted forward, taking a hold of her hand. “No. No, I can’t let you do this. I-”

“And you’ll let all of this go to waste?” Leliana forcefully held his gaze, her eyes sharp. “No. Look at us. We’re dying. Cassandra, Sera, go.”

“I’ll buy you time, Lord Too-Tight-of-Breeches,” Sera said quietly, her eyes shining with tears. “I’ll make ‘em pay! All of ‘em. They’ll be wearing my arrows, you’ll see. Or, won’t see. Hopefully.”

A blanket of numbness fell over Cyrlen. He stared at the floor, waiting to wake up. His heart felt like it was held by a single tiny thread that was about to break. With a shaky breath, Cyrlen pulled the pouch out of his pocket. His eyes blurred and he placed the pouch into Cassandra’s hand. “Keep it with you, Cassandra.” His chest burned as if he breathed in acid. “Da’assan,” he looked towards Sera, fighting to keep all the pieces of himself together. “I’m so proud of you.”

“S-Stop talkin’ like that,” Seras let out a thick breath and turned her head away from him. She lifted to hand to roughly wipe her cheek. “It’s all weird and shite.”

“Go,” Leliana shouted, impatient. Her eyes cut towards Dorian. “Cast your spell. You have much time as I have arrows.”

Sera and the Seeker disappeared through the stone doors. Cyrlen felt the floor crumble away from underneath him and his lungs seized. He fought to gain breath.

_“I’ll be back,”_ he had promised. His brother had stared up at him with open, curious eyes. What color of green had they been? A bright green? Were they green? The image of his brother’s face warped into Sera’s.

What did her eyes look like without the taint of red lyrium?

_“I’ll be right back.”_ The room became white. Everything. Nothing. Cyrlen couldn’t breathe. He bent over, his lungs screeching for oxygen. A force grabbed his shoulders and he felt himself moving backwards.

He couldn’t see it.

_“Don’t you dare runaway,”_ Maeron’s lips had quipped with a small smirk. His eyes had been bright. _“I’ll be counting every second you’re not here, and you’re going to have to make up for it.”_

How long had he been counting?

His feet tripped over another and he crashed to the floor. Pain barked up his spine from his tailbone. Quick, tense voices argued somewhere far off. Or maybe very, very near. Then silence. Cyrlen curled, sitting with his head between his knees. He focused on breathing.

_“I won’t be long, da’vhenan.”_

 

* * *

 

He felt every single second like a pinch on his skin. Sweat crawled on his forehead and gathered on the back of his neck. Fighting sounded on the other side of the doors. Dorian breathed shakily. He was almost there. The spell was slowly unwinding before him. _Almost there._ His heart stuttered in his chest.

In a moment like this, Dorian should probably be caring less about the man who sat at his feet, leaning against his leg. But his heart kept giving a small shrill, and he didn’t really care for the way his stomach felt all light and airy. The Herald rolled his head against him, eyes squeezed shut with sweat shining on his forehead.  

Something happened the moment Sera and Cassandra disappeared behind those doors.

_Almost there._ Dorian’s eyes narrowed on the amulet and tried not to think about the way the Herald’s head fit against his leg. The fighting stopped, and Dorian’s heart dropped. Against him, Lavellan stirred.

“How is the spell?” Leliana asked, back towards them.

“It’s getting there,” Dorian said, thickly.

A roar of voices started on the other side of the stone doors. Something hit the doors, and they shook under its force. Dust and pieces of stone clattered from the ceiling. Slowly, the Herald pulled away from Dorian and tried to get to his feet. His feet stuttered and he almost fell.

Leliana withdrew her bow and pulled the string taught with an arrow. “Though darkness closes,” she prayed loudly, “I am shielded by flame.” The doors shook again.

_Almost…_

The air burst, and the doors exploded open. Demons crawled into the room, and two broken bodies were carelessly tossed into the room. A noise broke from the Herald—the sound of a shattered man. Leliana let the arrow fly. Before the arrow hit its target, she had another on her bow. “Andraste guide me.”

_Just a little bit more…_

“Maker, take me by your side.” Bodies of the enemy fell to the floor, except more kept surging forward. Like water pouring in from a crack in the wall, or bugs spilling out from a ripped open bag. An arrow landed its mark right in Leliana’s shoulder and she let out a pained cry. The Herald started forward.

Dorian caught his shoulder, “Don’t! You leave and we all die!” Turning, Lavellan set his agonized eyes on him.

Feet away from them, the spymaster shouted, whipping through the air. Her bow slammed into bodies and broke bones. Clenching his jaw, Dorian yanked Lavellan closer to him and wrapped an arm around him. The Herald let out a shuddering breath and buried his face into Dorian’s chest. _There._

The time rift tore open the air, ripping into existence. Leliana’s pained cry broke through the din and was soon silenced by a bone-shattering roar. A small noise left the Herald—defeat. _Don’t worry, none of this—it won’t happen. It’s not happening. We’re fine, we’re fine…_ The Rift swallowed them whole.

Darkness robbed him of his sight, and a chill settled down in his bones. His stomach flipped and flopped, pushing nausea up his throat. Ghost wind ripped past them, cutting into them. Dorian tasted something inky in his mouth. For a few terrifying seconds, he thought he did it wrong.

They were being sent to their deaths.

Then light returned to them. They stumbled from the darkness, out into the present. Dorian took a second’s glance around the room before standing straight. “You’re going to have to do better than _that_ to get rid of us.”

Alexius stared at him in disbelief. His mouth left agape.

The air was thin. Dorian stared at Lavellan, gently peeling his arm away from the man. He waited for the Herald to reappear, to pull on his magnificent stone mask. There was only silence interrupted by labored breathing.

Seconds passed, and Alexius dropped to his knees in defeat. His eyes lifted to Lavellan’s face. Whatever he saw caused him to pale considerably. “You… you won.” Alexius choked. “There’s no point in extending this charade.” His brows collapsed together and he shook his head. Brokenly, he said, “Felix…”

The young man stepped towards his father and crouched down in front of him. Tenderly, Felix put a hand on his shoulder and peered into his eyes. “It’s going to be alright, father,” he promised.

“You’ll die,” Alexius clenched his teeth, pain shining in his eyes.

A sad smile quirked the tip of Felix’s lips. “Everyone dies.”

Defeat filled Alexius’ face and he nodded sadly. Inquisition soldiers surged forward to lead them away. The Herald shifted and watched Dorian out of the corner of his eyes, as if waiting for Dorian to say something.

“Well, I’m glad that’s over,” Dorian offered.

The Herald’s stone mask fit snugly on his face and he gave a small nod. His eyes drew forward, towards Sera and Cassandra. Through that mask, Dorian read relief. He let out his own sigh and crossed his arms.

None of this was over.

 

* * *

 

_What does it mean, exactly, to ally with someone? The mages are allied to the Inquisition. The others seem unsure what to think of that. Harding didn’t have much to say on the subject, though I didn’t press it._

_The Herald granted a group of misled people redemption. Only time will tell what will come of it. The next step will be to close the Breach. I wonder if he can do it._

_I pray he can._

_Also, it’s so hot. Everything is so hot. I am sweating and chafing and this is terrible. Absolutely terrible. I would not wish it on anyone or anything yet here we are, dragging our arses across the desert. I might die._

_I yearn for a forest. Or a waterfall. Or just a block of ice._

 

* * *

 

The dry wood sparked to life, welcoming the fire magic. Cyrlen crouched with his palms near the flames, waiting for the heat to feel like a burn. He watched the flames dance and knew them as well as he knew his own voice or face. The sky turned orange with the waning day and a chill already settled over the camp.

A faint breath left his lungs and the fire crackled. He beared the heat, hoping to cement himself to this reality. Few people walked around him and eyes bore into him like gentle claws, testing the thickness of his skin. Questions weighed in those eyes.

Questions he didn’t want to answer. Cyrlen let out a long breath and sat back. The fire’s warmth grew and cast a light around the little camp. He should feel relief. He should be eager to return to Haven, to crawl into a warm bed and sleep it all off. He should yearn to see familiar faces and sites.

He felt none of that. His chest felt hollow and fragile, like a bowl made out of thin ice. Feet stepped into view beside him. He recognized the boots, but didn’t offer a greeting.

A whisper of guilt pinched his stomach and he closed his eyes. They were a day away from Haven, and up until this point he had not offered much of any conversation. Not that anyone really wanted it.

They disapproved of his decision. And he bitterly didn’t want to discuss it.

“What happened, when you disappeared?” Cassandra broke his brooding silence.

Cyrlen looked up and spotted that a few others had gathered around his fire. Sera sat on the other side of the flames, eying him, and Dorian had settled on a crate. A rock lodged itself in his throat. Standing, he crossed his arms. “We…” His breath escaped him. Images cut across his gaze.

Leliana’s wrinkled face, the broken green sky, Sera’s body hitting the floor like a sack of broken pots.

With a hand, Cyrlen motioned towards Dorian. He hoped everyone wouldn’t notice it trembling. “Go on, Dorian. You would tell it so much better than I,” He did not meet the mage’s gaze.

“Oh?” Dorian leaned forward and played with the edge of his mustache. “If I must. You see, Alexius used the amulet as a focus…” The story began.

Quietly, Cyrlen stepped away from the fire and slid away from them. He walked far enough away to be out of earshot. The quiet sound of mumbling followed him. A large willow sat in front of him. Its branches stretched out like welcoming arms. With little to no thought, Cyrlen pulled himself up onto a low, fat branch. He settled on his back and stared up at the sky through the foliage.

His chest ached. Closing his eyes, Cyrlen pulled out his brother’s amulet and traced the familiar gold with his fingers. A twig snapped a few feet away. His ear twitched at the sound, but he let it be. He sighed and almost wished he had a blanket to go underneath him.

Someone leaned against the tree with a grunt. “Get caught in a tree again, Tight-Breeches?”

A faint smile curved the corner of his lips. Cyrlen opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Sera. “Oh, goodness thanks. I was scared I’d be caught up here for a while before someone rescued me.”

Sera’s nose scrunched as she cackled. Silence followed her laugh and they lingered in it for a bit. The air weighed with unsaid questions, and unanswered apologies. Cyrlen’s eyes drew up back towards the darkening sky. The setting sun always awed him, but he preferred the rising sun. There was something about impending darkness that itched him nowadays.

Very quietly, Cyrlen said, “I don’t… want to talk about what happened.”

“Coulda guessed,” Sera held a shrug in her tone. “Look. You’re all put together, right? Stone-face, so on. Everyone talks about it. But me? I see different sides too. And, just… somethin’s got you all torn, but you still got it all together. And it makes me think that it’s not all together.”

Silently, Cyrlen turned to look at her again.

Sera frowned. “You… disappeared. Like that, just _gone._ Then, poof! Back. Like ‘arse this, it ain’t got shite on me’,” she made her voice higher, as she usually did when she mocked him. “And… your face. I can’t forget it.”

A smile whispered on his lips. “It’s a good looking face, isn’t it?”

“Shut it!” Sera reached up to smack his arm. “You know what I mean, arse-face.”

Cyrlen chuckled, and he shook his head. He watched her warmly. “Thank you, da’assan, for worrying.”

“Don’t use that elfie shite on me.” Sera grumbled, collapsing against the tree. Frowning she stared off towards the camp. “Everyone gets enough of that from Shiney.”

His lips twitched at Solas’ nickname, before his face fell. Sadness pricked his lungs, spreading its cold touch in his veins. Leaning over, he gently ruffled her messy hair. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

Sera glanced at him before shifting closer to him. She leaned against his branch, side-by-side with him, and stared off into nothing. “Do you know any weird stuffs about the stars?”

Cyrlen’s gaze drew up towards the sky. He felt himself smile. It warmed him, and banished the aching emptiness in his chest. “A bit. What do you want to hear?”

“Anything. Just somethin’.”

 

* * *

 

The Chantry doors stood before him, illuminated by a few sconces in the dark night. Whispers accompanied the wind, scratching against his skin. A half breath left his lungs. What would they do, he wondered wryly, if he were to run off right now? His eyes fell to his feet. Snow gently trailed down from the starless light.

“Well, you know they’re arguing,” said a voice behind him.

A cousin of a smile twitched Cyrlen’s lips. “Really? I had thought they were having tea.”

“Tea,” Dorian replied, thoughtful. “Do you enjoy tea?”

“I enjoy pastries. Buttery pastries.” Cyrlen stood up straighter and let a halfhearted sigh. “Little fluffy ones that are flaky and melt as soon as they touch your tongue.”

“Those are quite tasteful. Though, I’m sure there’s a thing or two that you haven’t even thought to try, yet.” Dorian regarded with a hint of a smile twitching his mustache.

Cyrlen searched his eyes and raised a brow. “Is that an invitation?”

“Do you want it to be one?” Dorian didn’t seem surprised.

A blush tinged Cyrlen’s cheeks and his eyes landed back on the wooden doors. He sighed. “What I want is all this business to be over with. A warm bed, and at least a week to rest.”

Dorian laid a hand between his shoulder blades. “That will come. Perhaps after you’ve died, but it will come.” His eyes sparked with playfulness before he started towards the Chantry.

Withholding another sigh, Cyrlen trudged after the mage. The base of his skull pulsed with a headache. His body ached for rest, even if it be to lay down on the cold ground and to close his eyes. Whatever lay beyond the doors wouldn’t be any fun. The Chantry doors let out a loud creak when they opened. Quick, sharp words washed over him. The advisors stood in the middle of the hall in a small circle. Their hands whipped through the air, like weapons and shields.

_Mages, mages, blah, Herald, blah, Lavellan, Redcliffe, blah blah. Bad choices. Blah._

Cyrlen slowed and paused just inside the Chantry. He was tempted to turn around when his gaze caught Cassandra’s. She watched him critically, as usual, her mouth turned into a disapproving crescent.

The situation tickled his memory: Getting in trouble with the farmboy. His keeper frowning down on him for his utter lack of interest of anyone _except_ for a shem outside their clan. The words: _“The Keeper wishes to speak with you, da’len”_ and the dread that had quickly followed.

“It’s not a matter of debate. There will be abominations among the mages, and we must be prepared!” Cullen looked between Cassandra and Josephine, his lips twisted with irritation. He held the look of someone who felt as if they lost an argument when they had all reason not to.

_Creators,_ Curly Ruffleford’s voice was beginning to sound like sandpaper. Cyrlen withheld a sigh and closed his eyes. He prayed for patience.

“If we rescind our offer of an alliance, it makes the Inquisition appear incompetent at best, tyrannical at worst.” Josephine ruffled her feathers, straightening her spine. Subtly, Cyrlen stepped up beside her, feeling a small sense of comfort being closer to her. He glanced around the circle and caught the Commander’s eyes.

Cullen turned towards him, his voice as sharp as the blade he carried at his side, “What were you _thinking?_ Turning mages loose with no oversight? The veil is torn open!”

A long sigh left Cyrlen. He peered up at the Commander, who stood a few healthy inches taller than him. The others shifted on their feet, feeling the weight of the room. “What would you rather?” Cyrlen said, forcing his voice to be somewhat civil. His headache felt like a nail being twisted into his skull. “That I act just as the magister had? Rip away their freedom that they had fought for? That’s certainly no way to gain friends, Commander.”

“Lives will be lost, Lavellan.” The Commander used his name the same way others used _elf,_ or _knife-ear._ “With the veil torn open, the threat-”

“The threat?” Cyrlen closed the space between them, standing right in front of the Commander. His jaw clenched tightly and he craned his neck to look up at him. Eyes flashing dangerously, Cyrlen coldly said, “The threat is no more dangerous than a child running with a blade. You’ve been trained to see as us beasts-- _things_ that would do better with chains around our necks.”

Shock filled the Commander’s face and he fervently shook his head. “That’s not what I mean, Lavellan. The veil-”

Maybe it wasn’t meant that way. _Lavellan, knife-ear._ It didn’t really matter anymore. What was left of Cyrlen’s patience washed away with the image of his brother’s face in the back of his mind. “ _Dirthara-ma!_ The veil. We’re not _abominations_ just yet, Commander.” A deep breath filled his lungs and it tasted of tar. “What do _I_ know? I’m nothing but a _Lavellan._ That must rub you poor, doesn’t it? Believe it or not we’re actual people underneath all this ‘evil’ magic, and we have actual and complete thoughts.”

“L-” Cullen began, his face torn. “Herald, that isn’t--I-I hadn’t-”

“My brother,” Cyrlen started, and his voice broke underneath the weight of those three syllables. His eyes flooded with tears and he stepped away from the Commander, clenched hands shaking. “He is dead. That’s one less mage for you to worry about, correct?”

The question was rhetorical and hung awkwardly in the air. Distraught, Cullen stared at Cyrlen. A few stutters left his mouth, the beginnings of defensive words or excuses. Then he stole himself, his resolve hardened. Cullen reached out an awkward hand and laid it on Cyrlen’s head. A gesture for a crying child. Cullen’s voice dropped to a light whisper, thick with sympathy and only loud enough for Cyrlen’s own ears, “Cyrlen, I’m sorry.”

The apology slapped him out of his anger. Dumbfounded, Cyrlen blinked at the tears in his eyes and stared stupidly at the Commander. He stepped away and peered at the shocked faces that surrounded him. His stomach dropped and spilled to the ground, and guilt quickly poured into his chest. “Oh… oh, I-” Cyrlen stared at the rug beneath their feet. Heat scorched through him, a powerful force of shame and regret. “Creators, Cullen. Forgive me. I am… I am so sorry, I-”

“Herald,” Josephine said gently, eyes lit with empathy.

Shaking his head, Cyrlen choked, “I-I… I am so sorry, I-” He turned from them, head ducked low. Before another word could be uttered, he fled.

 

* * *

 

All noise sucked out of the room the instant that the Herald left. No one moved. The doors to the building creaked shut, and they were left with nothing but quiet mumblings from somewhere far off. Dorian shifted on his feet and sighed quietly through his nose. His eyes flooded with a mix of worry and pity.

“While I don’t agree with the decision,” Cassandra said slowly, testing the waters. “I support it.” Her eyes lifted towards the Commander, and she dipped her head towards him. “The sole purpose of the Herald’s mission was to gain the mages. I see no fault in how he’s accomplished it.” She hesitated and dropped her gaze. “None of you were there. He disappeared, then came back someone different. From what I’ve heard-”

“From what you’ve heard from me isn’t even a quarter of it,” Dorian cut in, stepping from his place in the shadows. The Seeker turned halfway face him, watching him with sharp eyes. Leaning against a column, he shrugged and said, “It’s not my place to go on all frilly nilly about it, though.”

“The Herald, he’s,” Josephine spoke, her brows drawn together in concern. “Hurting.”

_That’s putting it mildly,_ Dorian mused inwardly.

“It’s not as if we can correct that,” Cassandra crossed her arms and frowned deliberately at the ground, as if it were the offender who hurt their poor Herald.

“Perhaps… a funeral?” Leliana offered, hesitantly.

“Ah, yes! Let’s rub it in his face shall we? ‘Ha! Your brother is dead. Look at that. Alright, time to move on.’” Dorian made a vague gesture into the air, a half shrug, and said, “Don’t think that will go well.”

Cassandra’s gaze could do well to cut large objects. Like trees, or boulders. Dorian didn’t like that gaze on himself. Her face pulled into a hint of a frown and she slowly said, “Maybe it would be best to just move on.”

“Is it… insulting when I call him Lavellan?” The Commander asked. He reminded Dorian of a worried puppydog, with a tail tucked between his legs. Though, he was a rather cute puppydog.

“I don’t think that’s the issue,” Josephine assured, her lips pulling into a gentle smile. “We should get the necessary arrangements in order. For now I’ll try… talking to Master Lavellan. It may help.”

Dorian studied them for a moment before he stepped forward. “How about I speak with him? I know on a personal level exactly what has happened.”

Several gazes whipped towards him, and Dorian suddenly remembered exactly who he was. A Tevinter. It didn’t matter if he had helped them in Redcliffe. The point in fact was that he was a mage, and he was from Tevinter.

Now he understood where some of the Herald’s irritation arose from.

“I don’t see issue in both of you speaking to him.” Cassandra said, surprising Dorian. Her eyes drew back towards Josephine. “I suspect he wouldn’t be happy if we all made it obvious.”

“Ah, well, there we go. We’ve reached a decision, and here I was enjoying the circular talk,” Dorian smiled wryly.

“Aside from the Herald,” Leliana cut in; her eyes swept the faces of those in the room, calculating. “We should look into what we’ve learned about this ‘dark future’,” Leliana broke away from the circle and began to pace in deep thought. “The assassination of Empress Celene? A demon army?”

Thoughtfully, Dorian stared up at the ceiling. _Sounds like a Tevinter cult. A little chaos for everyone._ He carefully stepped away from the group and headed towards the doors that the Herald had disappeared through. He couldn’t help but notice that Cullen had called Lavellan something. A name that Dorian hadn’t caught.

Cullen sighed. “One battle at a time. We will need time to organize the soldiers and new… mage recruits.” He frowned and glanced towards Josephine. “You don’t suppose I should apologize-”

Quips of protest simultaneously erupted from Josephine, Leliana, and Cassandra.

Dorian bit back a rather satisfied smirk.

With a slightly forced laugh, Josephine tucked her hair behind her ear and said, “Commander, I think it would be best to leave the Herald be for now… until he’s ready to join us again in the war room.”

Looking a little sad, the Commander nodded. “Alright. Of course.” With a hair of hesitation, he said, “I’ll begin preparations.”

Dorian decidedly left the Chantry without another word, leaving the others to their devices. The cold assaulted him almost immediately, causing goosebumps to stir against his skin. He almost wished for something warmer, like a cloak, but Ferelden tastes in such things were rather dry. And usually it consisted with some type of dog etched into the seams.

It took too long to find the Herald.

The weather chilled his ears and his toes started to ache numbly. Lavellan wasn’t in his room, in the tavern, or visiting with that Warden who surely had a few bugs living in his beard. Dorian tried not to let his irritation wear on him. It wasn’t very becoming of him, and really, the Herald had gone through all this effort to be alone, so maybe Dorian _should_ leave him alone.

Then he saw him.

Perched on top of a rock, peering out onto the frozen lake. Dorian let out a breath and trudged through the snow towards the lone elf. He remained quiet as he reached the boulder and eyed the stone. It probably was a heat-sucking beast. In a passing thought, he wondered how in Andraste’s name that the Herald had managed to sit there for so long. Clenching his jaw, Dorian ignored the cold and take a seat. Warmth met with his seat, and his brows raised. _Oh. Well. That’s something._  

Like a statue come to life, the Herald shifted. He held something in his hands, before quietly moving to show the mage. “Here’s what I had lost that day.”

In the pale light, a beautiful gold amulet lay in Lavellan’s hand. It looked like a gold tree come to life, wrapping around a big, fat jewel. Momentarily, it stole Dorian’s breath.

“Can’t imagine what they must all think of me now.” A long breath left the Herald and he shook his head. His ears lowered, and they looked bright pink from the cold. He wore the last month on his shoulders and face. It pulled the corners of his mouth and sucked the energy from his eyes.

The Herald looked hundreds of years old, and thousands of miles away.

“You don’t really care what they think of you, do you? It would be so tiring.” Dorian smoothed his mustache out thoughtfully and studied the amulet. It held the Herald’s heart in those twisted branches, and it was cracked.

“No,” a whisper of amusement lifted Lavellan’s tone. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Me being right isn’t anything new, dear Herald,” Dorian mused, smirking lightly at him.

The Herald leaned back and let out a long breath. Fog steamed from his mouth and he nodded. “So far that holds to be true. I suppose we should return, before I begin losing some limbs to the cold.”

“So far?” Dorian challenged.

The Herald shot him a mischievous glance that caught Dorian’s breath. “We’ll see.”

 

* * *

 

_I can’t believe it._

_He did it._

_The sky--it’s… mended. There are still more rifts here and there, but the breach. It’s gone. We celebrated tonight, the group and I. It’s been a long time since I felt like dancing around. And I did. Harding and I danced together to music that another scout made by clapping pots and pans together, and someone was singing._

_But I can’t help but feel like there’s a catch. I’ve always been told that I’m a bit of a downer. Everything just feels anti-climatic. Yes, the breach is sealed. Yes, the Herald is safe. Yes, the war between the templars and mages have been nullified. For now._

_I would never say anything, but I can sense it. The air is tense and the winds feel wrong. Maybe it’s just me._

_Maybe the world just feels wrong after the Conclave._

_Maybe._

  



	6. Learning to Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know those days where everything kinda just slips right into place? 
> 
> You get a nice grade on a test, the instructor doesn't give out homework, you manage to save all of the world because of some weird thing in your hand?
> 
> Yeah. Today isn't one of those days.
> 
> ((thnks fr th mmrs))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It's been... oh, um. A month. This is awkward... (Ahem) I'll keep this short and sweet: School's a kick in the arse, from now on expect a chapter out every two weeks, aaannd, you all are wonderful. Thanks a bunch for your patience! <3
> 
> Are you ready for it? Are you getting tired of it yet? You are? Good. We all know you're a masochist. You _are_ reading an angst fic. 
> 
> Thank you, [Cat](http://psychoticcupcake.tumblr.com/). You deserve the world--well. I mean... no one deserves the world at the state it's at right now, um... hm... would you like a star instead? A gold one?

The floor blurred beneath his feet, shifting in and out of view. _Breathe._ He had to breathe. His lungs felt too small, or the air too thick, or his throat too thin. A cacophony of whimpers and shifting armor pressed tightly against his ears. Fear, it lurked everywhere. The usual old, sacred Chantry smelt of humidity, sweat, blood, and other indiscernible messes. His armor felt too tight around his neck, and too loose in odd places. It felt wrong.

He felt like a failure.

A soft voice cried far off, belonging to a child crying for their mother who wasn’t there anymore.

He was a failure.

The ground trembled, and it took Cyrlen a few moments to recognize that it wasn’t him losing a grasp on reality. The trembling came from outside. He blinked up at the closed Chantry doors, feeling a wave of adrenaline warm his skin. He drew air into his lungs and cast his eyes towards Cullen.

“I hope you have a full understanding of what you are saying,” Cyrlen spoke through a mouth full of knives. Hope felt like a liar, and he didn’t want to listen. It whispered in his chest, quiet and persistent. But he couldn’t listen.

A muscle in the Commander’s jaw twitched and he nodded solemnly. “We won’t give them the chance to choose how we die. At least we’ll go down how we want to.”

The air grew thinner and Cyrlen took in a deep breath. _Failure._ He closed his eyes tightly to bare himself against his thoughts. They screamed inside of him, threatening to tear apart his resolve. _They’re all going to die._ Events in Redcliffe flashed behind his eyes. Tainted voices, Leliana’s twisted, sickly skin, the dyed-green sky. _“I’ll be right back.”_

His brother’s eyes. What type of green were they? Like a leaf with sunlight pressing against it? Or like blades of grass shifting in a gentle breeze?

Cyrlen let out a breath and opened his eyes. He locked onto Cullen’s gaze, face set in determination; his voice cut through the din, “There’s another way.” It wasn’t a question. He couldn’t afford a question right now. There had to be another way. _Something._ Anything.

“Yes… that could work…” A mumbled voice drifted between a moan of pain and a far-off conversation. Cyrlen drew his eyes away from the Commander towards the boy that had only just recently knocked at their doors. A large hat covered most of the boy’s face, often only giving away cracked lips and a pale chin. The hat tilted towards him. “Chancellor Roderick has something he wants to say. Before he dies.”

_ ===== _

_“It’s dead.” Sunlight streamed through broken leaves, splattering onto the chilly ground. The air fizzed with lingering electricity, and smelt of something burnt. In the middle of the clearing lay a body of feathers. Maeron stared at it with wide eyes, his lips parted. “It’s dead,” he repeated, voice breaking._

_“Maeron,” Cyrlen started, gently._

_“No.” His brother turned to him, shaking off any comfort. “Cyrlen, it’s dead. I-I… I…” Voice cracking, Maeron turned two watery eyes away from him._

_Sternly, Cyrlen repeated, “Maeron.”_

_“No!” Maeron threw his hands in the air. “It--it’s dead. I killed it! I killed the bird, Cyrlen. It’s dead. You can’t change that.”_

_Swiftly, Cyrlen snapped out a hand to reach for his brother. “Maeron, listen to me-”_

_“I killed the bird! I killed-” A weak breath left Maeron and he covered his face with his hands. He shook his head, letting out a broken whimper. “I didn’t even… I didn’t even mean to, I didn’t-”_

_“Shh, shhh…” Cyrlen stepped forward to wrap Maeron in his arms._

_With a cry, Maeron ripped away from his brother. He hugged his arms around himself, staring up at his brother in fear. “No! No, don’t… don’t touch me. Don’t.”_

_Pain filled Cyrlen’s lungs and his hands dropped. He swallowed. “Maeron. Having magic doesn’t make you a monster. You’re not going to kill me.”_

_“How do you know?” Maeron choked. “I killed the bird, I can kill you, too. They’ll send me off. They’ll abandon me. I’ll be left alone because I’m dangerous, o-or… or-”_

_“I wouldn’t let them.” Stepping forward, Cyrlen wrapped his arms around his brother and pulled him close. “You’re not going to hurt me. Calm down. It’s fine. You’re fine… I’m fine. Everything is going to be okay, alright? Everything is going to be okay…”_

_A soft, broken whimper left Maeron and he melted into Cyrlen’s hold. “I-I don’t want to lose you… I don’t….”_

_“You won’t.”_

_=====_

The Herald stood as a statue in the middle of the room, eyes drawn away from them. He searched the floor for answers only he could see. The mask he wore stood strong, hiding most of the panic and fear that whispered under his skin. Dorian liked to tell himself that he knew, that he knew the Herald well enough to know.

His eyes drew across the faces of the others who waited on the Herald, to hear his word. Sera wore blood like a second shirt, her eyes narrowed on the floor as if it were the one who decided it was a good idea to add an archdemon into the mix.

“Do you think you can do it?” Lavellan’s voice cut through the room. It almost seemed that every time he spoke, everyone froze and held their breath to hear every syllable. The room held onto every single word.

“Yes, but,” Cullen’s brows fell together and his voice died. They stood at odds. The Herald held great respect for the Commander, but whatever meager friendship they had been building disappeared after Redcliffe. Not that Cullen didn’t like Lavellan. He still reminded Dorian of a puppy seeking approval. “What of… you?”

The Herald’s eyes drew up towards Dorian, for a moment. A minor second before his gaze flickered away and he pressed his lips into a thin line. Heaviness settled into the air, thick with the reality of death. _That does put a damper on things, doesn’t it?_

“What’s this shite?” Sera broke the near-silence and whipped her bow around. “Standin’ around like arses, you are. Let’s get some arrows into baddies, yeah?”

“No.” The Herald said quickly. “I’m going alone.”

Several marks of objection filled the Chantry. Sera’s angry shriek out spoke the rest. “Bleeding tits, you’re not! No! Stupid, shitehead--shite brain! What are you-”

“You can’t be serious,” Cullen blurted, taken aback.

Dorian found himself moving before he could really gain his thoughts. He stopped in front of the Herald, baffled and uncertain as to why he had moved. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Back straight, mouth frowned, Dorian stared into the Herald’s eyes. The elf stared at him, light eyes shining in the fiery light. His eyes looked more gold than green. “That’s pure idiocy,” Dorian said, slowly.

The Herald’s face twitched. “What have you? Drag you out there with me? So that you may fall?”

“I think you forget that I’m very capable-” Dorian began.

“No barrier is going to keep alive when rocks crash into this place, Dorian.” Lavellan stepped forward, ears lowered dangerously. His eyes looked like golden fire.

“And what if you can’t even reach the trebuchet?” Dorian grit through his teeth.

The Herald’s voice dipped low, thick like molasses, “I will not stand to see another person fall because of-” He stopped, caught on a pile of words.

“He wants to stop it,” a quiet voice trickled into the air, and a chill tapped Dorian’s spine. “Before he loses more. It hurts, whispering, spidering through his chest and set deep into his bones.”

“Excuse me?” Lavellan’s eyes flickered to the hat holding up the Chancellor.

The hat tipped towards the Herald.

Silence pulled taut like a string, straining the oxygen. The Herald’s fingers curled, one hand dipping into a pocket. His eyes bore into the floor, seeking new answers. He swallowed. “We can’t waste any more time on this. The enemy is almost here. Cullen,” the Herald met the Commander’s gaze. “Get the people out of here.”

“Yes, Lavellan,” Cullen dipped his head.

Turning on his heel, the Herald rushed towards the door. Dorian followed, a step behind him. His heart hammered in his chest, and he wondered if he would follow Lavellan anywhere, if asked. The Chantry doors pushed open, shoving a rush of cold, biting wind into the Chantry. The cool air chilled Dorian’s skin and he couldn’t hold back a sigh.

“Wait,” the Herald turned. “I forgot to restock on potions. Could you?”  

Dorian met Lavellan’s gaze and raised a brow. “Why, anything for you, dear Herald.”

The Herald blushed and coughed into his arm, “Get on with it.”

Despite himself, a whisper of giddiness tickled his stomach. “That was the plan,” Dorian said slowly with suggestion heavy in his tone. The Herald sputtered. Withholding a smirk, Dorian turned from him to search for a supply crate. A hand grasped his, stopping him. Curious, Dorian turned towards Lavellan. The world moved slowly as the Herald brought Dorian’s hand up to his lips, lightly brushing a kiss against Dorian’s knuckles. Startled, Dorian stared dumbfounded at the Herald, whose eyes watched him with soft regret. Then, with no warning, the Chantry doors slammed shut. Dorian choked in surprise and stared at the space that the Herald once occupied. He surged towards the doors, and felt the air stir.

Sera crashed into the door beside him, trying to yank it open. It barely gave an inch. “Tit sticks!” She shouted, slamming her shoulder into the door. “It’s cold as shite! Arse it!”

Realization fell on him like bird droppings. “He froze the doors shut,” Dorian breathed. His throat closed and he stared in disbelief at the large doors before him. The ground trembled with another thunderous roar.

“Fucking childish is that shite!” Sera cried, her eyes shining dimly. “The arse! Arse--” She kicked the door.

“The imbecile,” Dorian whispered against the anger surging through his veins. The warmth of the kiss still warmed his hand. He had to stifle the temptation to cup his hand to his chest. His startled heart didn’t want to listen. 

_=====_

_Heat of the argument still warmed his skin. He stood, hands clenched, glaring at the ground. Angry tears pressed the back of his eyes and he clenched his jaw tightly against the watery tone shaking from the tent. Shadows cast against the tent’s walls, a man and woman. The woman’s voice was thick, her hands whipping through the air._

_The man tried to calm her._

_Her voice came out in broken, angered breaths. “He was an accident, Dheaman. He wasn’t even meant to be born.”_

_Air became a rope, and it tightened around Cyrlen’s neck. He choked soundlessly, eyes turned towards the tent._

_“He was a mistake.”_

_Power rifted through Cyrlen and came alive at the palm of his hands. Magic spiraled into existence, spilling around him. The bright light fizzled out and trees held their breath. Then the forest popped, a spell set off at his feet. It sent him flying. He flailed his arms, gasping for breath before he slammed into the ground._

_His head bounced off packed dirt, and pain echoed in his skull. He kept his eyes shut in fear of setting tears free. A bubble filled his throat, blocking any air he tried to breathe in._

_Of course. Of course this had to happen right then._

_From far off, a voice called out in surprise. “Cyrlen!” His keeper’s voice grew louder. “Cyrlen!” Her hands gently fluttered around him. “Da’len, are you alright?”_

_Cyrlen didn’t answer. He was afraid if the bubble in his throat popped that he would cry. A gentle hand wiped the hair from his face, and it took every ounce of him to not slap it away. With a deep, slow breath, Cyrlen pushed himself up. His eyes darted around the circle of people watching him, ears hot with shame. “I’m fine. Just… it...” He clenched his jaw and said, “I got distracted.”_

_“You’ve never had an accident like this before,” Deshanna said thoughtfully, eyes cast towards the lingering evidence of the blast._

_A ball of quills expanded in Cyrlen’s chest. His eyes fell on two familiar faces that had just emerged from a tent. They watched him with scrutiny, one near smug and the other just accepting. As if she had expected this. The quills punctured holes in his lungs. To hide his shaking hands, Cyrlen clenched his fingers. “Forgive me, Keeper.”_

_The Keeper’s eyes fell in the direction of Cyrlen’s own. “Da’len,” his keeper muttered in sympathy._

_Cyrlen felt his skin warm with more threads of shame. He pushed himself to his feet and thickly choked, “I’m going for a walk. Excuse me.” Without another word, he rushed away from the people and the mutters and the heavy, disappointed eyes of his parents._

_He squeezed his eyes shut, failing to keep fat tears from rolling on his cheeks. He choked. An image of his parents silhouetted against the tent’s canvas filled his blurred vision. Cyrlen broke into a sprint, diving into the forest._

_Nothing but a mistake ._

_=====_

Blood dripped from above his brow, carving tickly warmth against his hot skin. Cyrlen breathed heavily, staring at the deformed carcass on the snowy ground. Red lyrium grew from the thing’s skin. A chill clawed up his back and he stepped shakily away from it. His legs wobbled as he stepped towards the stairs, a mixture of exhaustion and pain. His chest ached.

The cold night weighed down on his shoulders, and fear nagged him. He didn’t allow himself to linger on it. Instead he allowed his conscious to float in the thirty or so years worth of memories. His foot slipped on the icy stairs. Panic breathed a shred of wakefulness through him. He stumbled down to the bottom step, barely keeping his feet under him.

Dorian’s words replayed in his ears: _“And what if you can’t even reach the trebuchet?”_

Skin warming, Cyrlen clenched his jaw. He took a sharp left, straight towards the waiting trebuchet. Blood and bodies littered the ground and thickened the air with miscellaneous stench. His gut threatened to heave. Sucking in a breath, he pressed forward.

Trying. He was good at trying, wasn’t he?

_======_

_They stared at him. He stared down at his soup, or whatever liquid concoction that these people called nutritious. Cyrlen frowned, not feeling all that hungry. He ate merely to satisfy the piercing eyes of a grumpy healer. The fire flickered in front of him, strong against the night’s persistent winds. He withheld a shiver and stirred his soup. Two days had not entirely been enough to recover, yet they were to be off the next day seeking some Chantry woman for support._

_Cyrlen pushed what he hoped to be a piece of chicken down underneath the surface of the broth. Had his brother been there, Cyrlen would have been listening to him muse about Redcliffe, to tell him some impossible facts he had learned by some merchant of some sort. Had his brother been there, Cyrlen might have been determined to go to the Hinterlands sooner._

_“Well, if we’re to be traveling together, I suppose we should at least learn a bit more of another.” The dwarf stepped up to Cyrlen then settled comfortably beside him. Light played with the dwarf’s chest hairs. “So, what makes your face look like that?”_

_“Excuse me?” Cyrlen raised his brows. For the life of him he couldn’t remember the dwarf’s name. Grief, it seems, made his memory shoddy at best._

_The dwarf’s lips cracked with a wide smile. “Why are you looking into your soup like it’s whispering insults about your mother? Give it a try. It’s not as bad is it looks.”_

_Cyrlen almost told the dwarf that he wouldn’t mind soup that spoke insults of his mother. He might even enjoy it. Instead, he shook his head. “I’ve tried it, unfortunately. I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to remember your name. I know you must have told me at least a few dozen times.”_

_Unfazed, the dwarf held out a hand. “Varric Tethras. Varric, for you to remember.”_

_“Dwarves certainly enjoy harsh consonants,” Cyrlen took his hand. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. Elves aren’t all that less obvious with their…” He vaguely motioned in the air. “Musical names.”_

_Varric chuckled and said, “Musical? Well, I know a few elves, and one certainly matches that description.”_

_“Oh?” Cyrlen almost smiled. “I know a few elves, too.”_

_The dwarf hit his knee and laughed. “And he can joke!”_

_“Surprisingly, I know.” Cyrlen held back a sigh and placed his soup aside. “So, Varric, what is it you said you do?”_

_=====_

Reinforcements. Of course there were. How arrogant of him to think sheer willpower would get him through this. Bruises marred his skin and he couldn’t see out of his left eye. His arms trembled and his fingers felt loose. Three more templars marred with red lyrium rose from over the hill.

Cyrlen breathed out and his vision blurred from fatigue. His magic drained, somewhere lost to desperation and plain stupidity. The clanking of armor sounded similar to funeral drums and he tried to recount faces and words.

_Cassandra, Sera… Josephine…_

A sword unsheathed and sliced the darkening sky. Cyrlen raised his staff to parry. The sword slammed down onto the wood and he felt it in his shoulders. He breathed shakily under his breath, whipping his staff through the air. It connected to the side of one of the templar’s heads.

_Leliana, the Iron Bull. Cullen._

Metal flashed in the corner of his eye. A large shield slammed into his shoulder, rattling his bones. He cracked against the cold soil and his vision flickered like a candle in a storm; he hung onto shreds of adrenaline to stay awake.

_Solas… Vivienne, Blackwall. Dorian._

Footsteps cracked on the gravel. Straining, Cyrlen pushed himself up on his elbows. He threw a hand out and blindly wove a line of runes into the ground. Fire threaded into the stone. It ignited. The earth trembled and hot air swept over Cyrlen. He saw two templars hit the floor and the last rush away screaming as fire took over them. When did he become so numb to watching someone die?

_Maeron._

Clenching his jaw, Cyrlen rose to his feet. He stumbled forward and squinted towards the trebuchet. His heart pounded in the palm of his left hand. Clumsily he grasped for the aiming wheel and began to turn it. His muscles screamed in protest.

Two templars raised from the floor, their footsteps drunk. The trebuchet turned bit by bit, just a few notches away from being aimed. An arrow screeched into the night, and seconds later the skin on his arm split, exposing muscle.The arrow, colored in his blood, stabbed into the wood of the trebuchet. Cyrlen let out a surprised cry of pain, his hold on the knob slipping.

A templar rushed towards him and slammed into him with his shield. The ground reached up to slam against him. Above him stretched the night sky. Unmarred with the breach, beautiful and large. Stars twinkled, dancing to their own secret songs.

The edges of Cyrlen’s gaze began to darken. Numbly, he shakily pushed his hand into his pocket and curled his fingers around the amulet. It warmed his hand.

_Goodbye._

  _=====_

_“You’re nervous.” It wasn’t a question._

_Two large eyes flickered up towards him, heavily outlined in kohl. Maeron’s lips pulled in a smile, and he returned his attention to the amulet he cradled in his hands. “I guess. You’re nervous, too. Although…”_

_The fire flickered between them, warming the stew that hung just above the coals. Cyrlen shifted closer to his brother, and gently knocked his shoulder into his. “Although?”_

_“There’s so much to learn. So many different cultures. We’re there to observe, to spy really, and learn. And… I’m excited.” Maeron smirked lightly. “Why are you giving me that look?”_

_“Honestly, I don’t understand how we’re related.” Cyrlen rolled his eyes. “The Parents must of picked you up from the forest. Mistook your ugly face for a halla.”_

_Maeron let out a laugh and shoved against his brother. “You’re so mean! You abuse me! That’s it. I’m looking for a new brother.”_

_Chuckling, Cyrlen leaned against him and stared thoughtfully at the fire. He smiled and said, “Good luck with that. You will have a hard time finding someone to put up with all your kohl.”_

_His brother flashed him a challenging look, daring him to say one more rude comment. After a moment, his eyes fell to the amulet. He turned to push himself into Cyrlen’s arms and lean against him. “I don’t get why you’re not excited about this. We’re finally on our own, with no one to scrutinize us. Did I mention we’re alone? It’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”_

_Smiling, Cyrlen leaned his cheek against his brother’s head and stared into the fire. “Mm.... it’s the shems, I suppose. I’m afraid of what all of this will bring. And we won’t be welcomed there, Mae. They… don’t like people like us.”_

_“Oh, come on. Stop being a baby.” Maeron pressed his elbow into Cyrlen’s side. “What’s the worst that could happen?”_

_A grin lifted Cyrlen’s lips and he dropped his voice into a fake, sobby tone, “Th-They’ll make fun of my large ears!”_

_Maeron threw his head back and let out a long, hard laugh._

_=====_

There were many words. Oh so many words that could fit this situation. His frustration warmed him, helping him ignore the cold for once. He followed the trail of the Herald’s work, ignoring the carnage of the entire battle. A few paces ahead of him, Sera lead the way. The string of words leaving her mouth matched his mood:

“Stupid! No-brained arse! Balls for tits! Tits for-”

Dorian clenched his jaw as they rushed towards the trebuchet. Beside him, Cassandra tried to keep up with their swift pace. Her heavy army weighed her down, and Dorian’s couldn’t even begin to imagine the discomfort it might cause. He listened to the clank of the plates sliding and clapping against each other.

The pathway opened up to a rounder clearing. Sera let out a startled breath and rushed forward, bow in her hand in an instant. “Eat arrows, stupids!” Arrows rained on the templars. The Seeker rushed forward with a bellowing yowl, shield raised against enemy fire. Dorian burst forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the Herald’s staff, cracked into two on the ground.

His eyes drew forward and he threw fire traps on the ground in front of him and Sera. He shot fire blasts towards the templars, his eyes searching for a familiar form. Foreboding crawled over him and his heart grew heavy. Shouts and metal clashing colored the night.

Cassandra slammed her shield into a templar and hacked the head off of another. There were only a few, an archer and two swords. They looked injured. Dorian searched desperately for a foreign ball of fire.

He threw another trap at the feet of the archer and an explosion sent them backwards. Sera let out a victory cry as an arrow landed right between the archer’s eyes.

The last templar hit the ground. Breathing heavily, Dorian lowered his hand and began to sweep his eyes over the bodies on the ground. Many sported burn marks. Sera lurched forward again, sprinting towards the trebuchet. Soundlessly, she threw herself to the frozen ground.

A body lay crumpled against the earth.

Dorian lost his breath and started forward. Carefully, Sera turned the body over and shouted at it. Her teeth clenched tightly, face scrunched in anger. The Seeker crouched down beside her and pushed her away to feed the body a potion. Space between Dorian and the body narrowed until he stood at its feet.

The Herald’s skin matched the scenery: grey and washed out. Blood splattered his armor and his skin. He looked tiny next to Cassandra, like a twig snapped in half next to a great tree. The potion drained and the Seeker tossed the flask aside.

“Wake up!” Sera shouted, her hands clenched. “Wake up, I’m not done yellin’ at your gross face!” She slammed her fists into his chest.

A cough burst from Lavellan’s lips and he let out a groan. “N-Not so hard!” Relief crashed over Dorian like a bucket of cool water underneath the hot sun.

“It better hurt!” Sera bellowed. “Stupid!”

Shakily, the Herald raised himself onto his seat and threw his arms up to shield himself from Sera’s attacks. “Sera--quit! I’m sorry-”

“Oh? He’s sorry. I suppose that fixes it all.” Dorian grit through his teeth. He crossed his arms. “Exactly what were you thinking? Look at you. If we hadn’t come, you--you-” His anger choked him and he spat, “You nug-for-brain’d fool!”

Surprised eyes flickered up to him. Dorian paused and felt a rush of heat shoot through him. He clenched his jaw. He wanted to blame it on his anger, or perhaps the fact that he’s been around Sera for far too long. Then the Herald’s face lit, like fire meeting a trail of dry grass. His eyes began to shine in the low light. “You’re here.” He choked, voice softened with awe. “You’re really here.”

“You expect us to let you get all the glory?” Cassandra smiled wryly. She threw a light punch into the Herald’s shoulder. “Don’t do that again.”

“Thank you,” the Herald choked. His lips ripped with a large smile. “I-I… can’t believe… I thought that-” He slowly shook his head, cutting himself off. “I’m so happy I’m not alone.”

“Shut it. You’re not forgiven.” Sera frowned and crossed her arms. “Ever. The only thing that makes this a bit better is,” her eyes cut towards Dorian. She sang, “Sir Handsome Bottom.”

Heat rushed through Dorian and he frowned deeply.

“What is it? What did you call ‘im?” Sera smirked up at him.

“We’ve got a trebuchet to aim, don’t we?” Dorian said promptly. He sidestepped them to get to the wheel and hastily began to turn it. Sera cackled behind him. Ignoring her, he focused on the task at hand. Relief eased into his bones.

“Oh, Maker.” Cassandra said behind him.

The ground rattled at the force of a large object smashing against it. The pure mass of the _thing_ stirred the wind. “I… don’t think your Maker was the cause of this, Cassandra,” the Herald spoke quietly. Glancing over his shoulder, Dorian saw the enormous creature. Red lyrium corrupted the thing, taking over what might have been a person. His stomach twisted with faint nausea.

It stomped towards them.

“I’m going to have to agree with you on this one,” Dorian muttered.

  _=====_

_The moon competed with the breach for light, only a crescent among the stars. Wind gently tousled the tall grass, and far off water whispered along in a small creak. Cyrlen stepped past the dying embers of their campfire and slipped towards a large tree. It’s roots tore into the ground, winding through the soil. He stepped up onto the lowest of roots and climbed around the tree, using them as steps._

_Moonlight cast against the opposite side of the tree, its pale light tinged green. Sighing, Cyrlen leaned against the bark and stared up at the changing sky. His lungs felt too small, and his heart too heavy. Owls hooted far off, crickets sang a gentle toon. The entire night was a symphony, a lullaby to put him to sleep._

_Except it didn’t work. Not tonight. He closed his eyes and breathed in the night air._

_“Suppose this is some elf thing, is it? Am I interrupting?”_

_The voice startled Cyrlen, but he didn’t let it show. His lips twitched and he opened his eyes. “You’ve interrupted a sacred ritual. Now look at you. We’ll meet years of drought and bad crops.”_

_Dorian paused before his lips curved into a mischievous smile. “My, certainly there is some other activity we could do, to encourage fertilization?”_

_Hesitating, Cyrlen felt his cheeks warm. He cleared his throat and shook his head, “You’re not interrupting a thing. I just…” He stole himself for a moment and shyly asked, “Did… did I wake you?”_

_“Ah, well. If by wake you mean grabbed my arm and tripped out of our tent, then yes, yes you did.” Dorian’s mustache twitched and he motioned, “Is the tree a necessity for you elves? You constantly need that backdrop to keep up the charade?”_

_“Shh,” Cyrlen smirked. “Don’t give away our secrets.” He stepped forward and gently dropped down beside the mage. “I’m sorry, Dorian. I…” He blushed and shook his head. “You needn’t worry. I simply can’t sleep.”_

_Dorian studied him for a moment, another question forming in his eyes. He smiled and said, “Ah. Well, we can’t have that. We’ve got some more horse follying to do.”_

_Blushing, Cyrlen leaned back against a root and crossed his arms. “That… uh, yes. Well, I…”_

_A laugh lifted Dorian’s face and he slid next to Cyrlen, leaning back beside him. “I hope you don’t mind my company, then?”_

_“I… appreciate it.” Cyrlen swallowed. “Thank you.”_

_“Seeing as I was already awake, it’s hardly out of my way.” Dorian teased lightly. He glanced over at Cyrlen and raised a brow. “If you don’t mind my curiosity… what’s ailing you?”_

_Clenching his jaw, Cyrlen shrugged unhelpfully. He sighed. His tired eyes fell to his naked toes. “My brother, to put it plainly.” He took in a small breath, thinking over his next words. “As you know. I’m a little torn up over it.” His lip twitched wryly._

_“That much is understandable,” Dorian shifted, and his shoulder brushed Cyrlen’s. “I am here, as you know. My ears are perfectly capable of listening, last time I checked.”_

_Cyrlen slowly lifted his gaze to the mage. He searched Dorian’s eyes, darkened by the night. Breathing in deeply, Cyrlen quietly spoke, “Little things bother me. I suppose. I used…” His brows collapsed together and he looked away. “When my brother couldn’t sleep, I would sing to him. A lullaby.” Reaching up, Cyrlen ran his fingers through his hair and tugged the ends. “I… woke up and I thought… for a moment you were him. And I…” His cheeks scorched and he nodded. “I’m sorry.”_

_“For what, exactly?” Dorian wiped a hand through the air, casting aside the apology. “There’s no need. I rarely ever catch decent sleep on the road anyhow.”_

_Shoulders curling slightly, Cyrlen studied his toes. He fell silent and let out a long breath. Beside him, Dorian shifted again. The weight of his eyes pressed against the side of Cyrlen’s face. Cyrlen gave him a small glance._

_“What was the lullaby?” Dorian asked._

_“I-” Cyrlen started, surprised. “You want me to sing it?”_

_A smile pulled Dorian’s lips. “It would certainly be interesting. Maybe it would soothe the both of us.”_

_Cheeks scorching, Cyrlen shook his head. “You… wouldn’t understand it.”_

_“I doubt your brother really understood it when he was young. It’s not so much the words, but the intent behind it, is it not?” Dorian reached up to smooth his mustache. “I won’t make you.”_

_“Another time.” Cyrlen promised._

_Surprise widened Dorian’s eyes. “Truly?”_

_Lips filling with a faint smile, Cyrlen nodded. “Yes. Maybe when Cassandra isn’t asleep. I wouldn’t suggest waking her. Or Sera, for that matter.”_

_Dorian chuckled. “I’ll hold you to it, then.”_

_======_

Wind hissed past them and stole any heat that Cyrlen had left. He grit his teeth and leaned against the frigid wood of the trebuchet, watching Cassandra charge forward, shield in hand and sword raised. The creature’s attacks became staggered and tired. It aimed blindly for Cassandra, and Sera when she strayed too close. A few paces away from him, Dorian slowed the creature down with fire and traps.

Magic lit the dark night, but did little to warm it. Cyrlen shivered and his bones ached. He threw a hand forward, pulling what little energy and magic he had left to throw a fire trap at the creature’s feet. As the runes carved into the ground, Cassandra whipped her sword through the air and cut right into tender flesh.

The rune detonated and the creature let out an ear-piercing screech. Its body crashed to the floor. Under his feet, the earth trembled. A shaky breath left Cyrlen and he turned towards the wheel.

“If we’re doing this, let’s get the stupid thing aimed!” Sera demanded. Breathlessness softened her voice.

Cyrlen twisted the wheel and listened the trebuchet creak. His breath puffed in front of him, colored by the cold. With one last turn, he stepped back and peered up at the trebuchet. “That should do it.”

“How do we make the thingie do it’s thing?” Sera aimed an arrow towards it, squinting.

A smile lifted Cyrlen’s lips and he turned to face her. He answered, just as a powerful screech punctured the air. “Move-” Cyrlen let out a startled cry. _“Move!”_

  _=====_

_“Move!” Sera barked behind him. A surprised noise escaped Cyrlen’s lips and he whipped around to stare at her. Conversation in the tavern came to a soft halt. The blonde’s lips widened with a large smile and she cackled. “Some stone-face. Rubbish, I thought. Some shite rumor that is. Though, you do have tight breeches.”_

_“You have a problem with my breeches?” Cyrlen felt his skin warm and he stepped aside. The tavern fell back into mindless conversations; conversations aimed to distract from the breach, or to explain it._

_Sera grinned up at him. “Your breeches? No. As long as you don’t let ‘em get too tight. As in, important. You know. Just, uh, watch yourself. Or them.” She vaguely motioned towards his pants. Sera glanced around before she moved towards a table and threw herself down into a seat. She gave him a gesture that he wasn’t sure was meant to be rude or welcoming._

_Uncertain, Cyrlen moved to sit across from her. “Welcome to the Inquisition, Sera.”_

_She looked back at him, a smile wide on her lips. “I thought it’d be bigger. Not your breeches. Or what’s in your breeches. I already knew that was small, your breeches.” She paused, and then let out another laugh. “Do you get it? It sounds like-”_

_“I can gather what it sounds like,” Cyrlen covered his reddening face with his hand. “Shall we move on?”_

_Sera snorted and giggled. “At least you get it.”_

_=====_

The world lost its sound. Jagged bits of rock pressed through his armor into his back, and his head pounded with its own heartbeat. He cracked his eyes open to a world caste in fire. Cyrlen rolled onto his stomach, nausea and dizziness rushed through him and for a few moments he lost track of what was up and down. Shakily, he pushed himself away from the rocks and rested on his knees.

Fire blazed out of the corner of his eye. He ached to feel its warmth. Something dark shifted through the orange glow, and he turned his head to catch a better glance. A giant figure emerged from the dancing flames, stepping towards him. The thing looked rotted with crystals obscuring parts of its face. Its skin was twisted, puffy and red. Like leather pulled taught on bones and left to mold.

Cyrlen failed to choke down his fear.

_=====_

_“...this isn’t going to pan out well.” Cyrlen stared dubiously at the large thing in front of him. It snorted and he couldn’t stop from flinching._

_Sera threw her head back and cackled, and Blackwall tried to cover a chuckle with a cough._

_The horse shifted on its hooves and shook out its mane. Carelessly, it leaned down to nibble on a dry patch of grass. Clenching his jaw, Cyrlen shook his head. “I prefer walking. Riding a horse, we’ll only miss important…”_

_“Important?” Cassandra asked dryly, her eyes narrowed. “What? Little bags of gold so you can hoard more of it?”_

_“I-” Cyrlen blushed. “The Inquisition could fair well for more gold.”_

_The Seeker’s face deadpanned. “Get on the horse, Herald. It won’t eat you.”_

_=====_

Snow danced from the black violet sky and disappeared on his cheek. His breath heaved from his lungs as he ran through the snow, puffs of air billowing from his lips. The cold soaked through his armor, and he stopped trying to feel his toes. “Oi! Over here, Sir Handsome Bottom!” A voice cracked across the shaky silence. Dorian snapped his gaze up to see Sera waving from atop a rather large boulder.

He let out a breath of relief and rushed towards her. Wind screeched across the pale ground, rushing right through him. Dorian shivered, lips trembling. Sera slid from the boulder and plopped down in front of him, her face pale as the snow. “Frowny’s got some blood. Ain’t good. She’s resting, but… Some stuff that is, yeah? Wh...what… what even is…?” Her voice died.

Clenching his jaw, Dorian shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Not now. We… we didn’t set off the trebuchet, but hopefully we’ve bought the others enough time. What are the Herald’s plans?”

“Crown-flower?” Sera asked. “As if I would know. Looks like he’s busy.” She jerked her chin behind Dorian.

Dread sunk his stomach and he turned. His eyes fell towards the trebuchet and disbelief dropped like piddles on his shoulder. The Herald was a mere figure on the ground, trapped between a beast and an archdemon. Dorian watched in horror as the beast stepped forward and raised the Herald into the air. “He didn’t run.” For a moment, he wondered the difference before _didn’t_ and _couldn’t._

“‘My hair is prettier than _your_ hair! Blah blah, touch it, no, _touucch it!_ ’” Sera said beside him, narrating the two. Her arms crossed; he saw her fingers trembled. “He’s going to die. He keeps asking for it, you know. Like some… shite.”

“Imbecile,” Dorian nodded, clenching his jaw. “Although I do doubt they are speaking of their hair.”

“Nug-for-brains, right?” A soft breath left Sera and she clenched her jaw. “He’s got no strength no more. Look at ‘im. He’s probably already dead.” Her voice cracked.

Dorian turned to glance at her, his brows pulling together. The archdemon screamed, sending a spread of chilly dread through him, and it yanked his attention back towards the Herald. The beast, the Elder One, tossed Lavellan as if he were nothing but a bag of old laundry. He crashed into the ground and rolled for a few paces. A bright green light flashed, and the Herald curled around his hand.

From where they stood, green fire looked as if it burned and fed off of the Herald. Dorian clenched his jaw and his brows pulled tightly together. “He’s alive.” He didn’t say, _He’s dying._ Knives felt like they were slowly carving their way into his flesh, chipping his bones. The thought of losing the Herald didn’t bring the same pain that the thought of losing Felix did. It brought on a hollow void, a whisper of something dark.

A promise of hopelessness. His hands curled, mind flashing back to Redcliffe. Lavellan’s face had been carved into his mind, along with that wretched future. Out of the corner of his eye, something flashed across the sky. Startled, Dorian turned to glance at the blonde beside him.

Her mouth turned in concentration, with her bow in hand. “Bloody tits! I missed.”

“What are you doing?” Dorian demanded, searching wildly for the arrow. It sailed right past the trebuchet, landing somewhere in the snow. The Elder One walked towards Lavellan, who had risen to his hands and knees. Something jerked Dorian’s heart, and he dared not to name it. He clenched his jaw.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Sera snapped. “Pissing? The thing has a pully jiggy, right? So, cut it. That’s all, right? Cuttin’ it?” She withdrew another arrow.

Dorian’s stomach twisted when he saw she only had two left, including the one she strung on her bow. He didn’t dare suggest what it might do. That was rather obvious. _The Herald will definitely die._ The Herald rose to his feet unsteady; he almost fell and caught himself by stumbling further away from both the trebuchet and the Elder One.

Another arrow cut through the air, and landed right at the Elder One’s feet. “Run when I say it, yeah?” Sera’s eyes narrowed. She withdrew her last arrow and aimed it. Her body stilled and she took in a slow, long breath.

The arrow flew.

_=====_

_Dawn spilled through the branches down onto the canvas of his tent. Cyrlen cracked his eyes open to study the pattern of the sun. A ball of warmth lay at his side and he couldn’t deny the small smile that twitched his lips._

_He peeked underneath his blanket to see a wild patch of brown hair smashed against his side, along with a pointed ear poking through the mess. Cyrlen felt his eyes soften. His heart pressed into the base of his throat. “Good morning,” Cyrlen whispered._

_The ball of warmth shifted ever so slightly and groggily answered. “B...Bror?”_

_Pressure built behind Cyrlen’s eyes. He turned to wrap himself around his brother. “Yes, Mae?” Cyrlen said softly._

_“Can… can I sleep more?” Maeron whispered, clutching onto Cyrlen’s tunic._

_“Of course, Mae.” Gently, Cyrlen pressed a kiss to the child’s head._

_“A-Are you gonna… gonna stay? Please?”_

_Smiling lightly, Cyrlen nodded. “I’ll stay.” He stared thoughtfully down at the head and blinked at the blur in his gaze. “As long as you will, too.”_

_A tired smile pulled Maeron’s lips and he turned his head to kiss Cyrlen’s chin. “I will! I want stay with you forever, bror.”_

_“Don’t encourage me, I’ll keep you forever.” A whisper of a smirk twitched Cyrlen’s lips._

_Giggling tiredly, Maeron tucked his head underneath Cyrlen’s chin. “Okay.” He kissed the amulet around his neck and whispered, “Night night, a-amulet. Night, night, bror.”_

  _=====_

The night grew old. Stars that littered the sky seemed to flicker against the pitch blankness, and the biting wind grew colder. Their voices were quiet, hushed by the mountain whose roar still echoed. Every time Dorian closed his eyes, he saw the trebuchet launch. Each moment etched into every single fiber of his soul.

Someone yelling for him to run. The Herald falling and disappearing. And snow. Dorian was so sick of snow.

“Rubbish, it’s all rubbish,” Sera choked.

Dorian opened his eyes to the lights of a temporary camp, just a few precious paces away. Figures rushed towards them. Dorian was too tired to care who. He glanced towards the woman hanging off his shoulder to see if she still breathed. The Seeker’s eyes shuttered open and she managed, “Maker, we’re here.”

“You’ve made it!” The Commander sounded relieved, and worried. “And…?” He and a few others came to a stop in front of them.

“The Herald?” Leliana asked, her voice tight as if she already knew.

Dorian didn’t feel like answering. “Lady Pentaghast needs a healer,” he said instead.

“I killed him,” Sera whispered. Her brows pulled together and she shook her head in disbelief. “Just… that. I killed him. He’s…”

A soldier stepped up beside him and offered to take Cassandra. Gratefully, Dorian transferred the burden and shot Sera a glance. “He was going to die anyways. Seems as if you beat that Elder One to it.”

Sera snapped her head towards him and gave him a feral look. “So it’s all good, innit? I shoot the arrow, whoosh! He’s dead.”

“Oh don’t give yourself _all_ the credit,” Dorian threw his hands in the air. “The Herald was doing a fine job of killing himself until we stepped in. You merely only just tapped him across the finish line-”

An animalistic noise left Sera. It frightened Dorian for a second, before she smashed into him. The weight threw him off and he crashed into the snow. “As if you even cared! Bloody arse!” Sera pulled back her arm to smash her fist into his cheek.

Dorian shoved against her, trying to twist away from the hit. “Get _off!_ What are you-”

Her fingers clawed his head before yanking on his hair. He flipped the two of them over, and an angry screech left Sera. Her knee slipped between his legs, and white hot pain bolted through his body. Well. It’s not like he had ever really planned for children, anyhow.

Arms pulled him away, and he didn’t really care for much except for nursing the better part of him. Voices mushed together, and he heard more angry screeching, before a hand clasped his shoulder. Cullen’s face filled his view. “Maker’s breath, are you alright?”

Dorian almost wanted to spit on the man’s face. “Just dandy,” he said through his teeth. “Perfectly fine.”

The Commander winced. “Let’s-”

“Not move for a bit? How does that sound?” Dorian slid down to his knees and breathed against the rising nausea in his throat. He heaved. Dizziness washed through him and he leaned to press his forehead against the cold snow.

If anything, at least it distracted him.

 

* * *

 

_Haven has been attacked. That’s all we know, without any other news. A bird delivered the message, without much except a warning. Some of the scouts want to make our way back to Haven. Even then, it’s a fortnight journey. We would never make it in time. Harding hasn’t said anything._

_We’re heading back towards Ferelden, but with no real goal in mind._

_The severity of it all silences us. An attack could mean anything. Either a simple skirmish, or an entire army. Haven could be perfectly fine. Haven could be lost. All we have is a simple, terrible message. No answers._

_I can’t stop wondering: What are we without the Inquisition?_

_I think I stopped being something after the Conclave. Sometimes I wonder if I was anything before that. Without the Inquisition, I am nothing but an apostate. There are places I can go to, but they are colorless. I doubt I even know how to live life alone. I grew up sheltered my entire life, with schedules designed for me, and someone to always tell me where to go._

_I’m terrified._

_I pray that the Inquisition is intact, that the Herald is alright. That I still have purpose in this dreadful world. I pray that I do not have to find out what it means to truly be alone._


	7. Unspoken Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know those dreams where you're falling, falling, and falling. Or maybe when you're running somewhere but the ground isn't moving beneath your feet, and you're still in the same place. 
> 
> Or those moments you fall into a cavern, and it's, like, super cold. As in, cold cold. And you think your ribs are broken--do you have a concussion??
> 
> Yeah, man. Those moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you. Yeah. You. Thank you for reading my work, and for your patience in waiting for me to update! 
> 
> A lot has happened these past months. First of all, I wrote a novel! If you're curious about that, you can check out my [Tumblr](http://kloudwrites.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Life is pretty busy for me, so between editing my novel and school, I am going to aim for a monthly update. Thank you again for your patience! 
> 
> Lastly, thank you [Cat](http://psychoticcupcake.tumblr.com/)! Thank you for my listening to my endless ramblings, and helping me edit my scrambled thoughts. I probably couldn't have gotten this far with you!

Silence followed the gentle tap of his heartbeat. The weight of the world felt empty. His consciousness slowly came back to him, like paint dripping into a puddle. Tongue heavy and throat dry, Cyrlen blinked open his eyes and looked around him. His muscles ached and pounded along with his heartbeat, slow and methodical.

A haze fell over his mind, turning the world around him into thick and viscous syrup. Cyrlen grunted. His brows fell together and he ached to fall back asleep. At least until the pain melted away.

Something whispered off the walls and itched the back of his brain, like a quiet voice. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, to take a look around him. His body collapsed back onto the cold floor. The thing whispered again, and he caught onto it:

_“That’s an odd place to sleep.”_

Cyrlen’s heart stuttered and he smiled lightly against the cold floor. His lips moved with a reply, but no noise escaped his throat. Darkness began to edge his vision and he welcomed it, falling into its comforting embrace.

_“Cyrlen, come on. It’s time to get up.”_

Exhaustion pulled on him, pulling him further away from the painful world he woke up to. It was better than the silence, somehow. There was warmth in the darkness, real or not. His mind drifted aimlessly, passing by memories and words.

Sayings he couldn’t remember, a voice that he wasn’t sure was right.

Eyes that weren’t green, eyes that were.

_“Come on, bror.”_

Wakefulness startled Cyrlen. He jerked as if to sit up. Pain sparked every ounce of his muscles and he dropped back down to the cold ground. A groan ripped from his throat and echoed off of the icy walls. His skin crawled with goosebumps. Carefully, Cyrlen cracked his eyes open and rolled his head across the cold ground. Only a sliver of light cracked into the room—or cavern. He wasn’t sure.

“Ma…Maeron?” Cyrlen tested, quietly. His voice bounced off the walls and silence ate it up. His stomach tightened with unease. He shakily pushed himself up onto his elbows and pulled his knees underneath him. Breath uneven, Cyrlen tried to gain his bearings. It was a cave of some sort.

He remembered the roar of the avalanche, the archdemon, the Elder One. His skin tensed. With a sigh, Cyrlen propped himself against a frozen wall and rolled his head back to lean against it. His eyes slid shut as he attempted to take inventory.

Where any of his bones broken? Could he walk? Was he bleeding?

Sleep crashed into him before he could even think to open his eyes.

 

* * *

 

_I’ve always been told to look at the bright side of things. And I always saw the impossibility of that. For a while, any positivity was shrouded by darkness. I only saw the bad. I didn’t understand how someone could simply ignore something, and smile through it._

_I compared it to getting stabbed and treating it like the prick of a thorn. But I understand now. Funny how being on your own does that, you’re forced to learn things that someone else had always done for you._

_Like learning when to wash your clothes, or to go to bed alone. I’ve learned to look at the bright side of things._

_It makes life just a hair easier. It’s not ignoring the bad, but fully acknowledging it. When there’s an issue, accept it. Move on from it, and seek something to fix it. I wish I could explain this epiphany to someone._

_Harding seems to already get it. Her eyes are heavy, and her smiles seem a little less frequent, but she’s determined._

_She inspires me._

_Haven’s fate is unknown to us, but I know that from here on out, there is a forward._

_There is always a forward._

 

* * *

 

Winds screeched across the cold night. The advisors were at odds. Their arguments ran in circles, accusing fingers were thrown into the air, _should have’s_ and _shouldn’t have’s_ were used like slaps. It would have been amusing on any other day.

Any other day. Dorian was frozen to his smalls. His better bits still remembered Sera’s hit and he shrunk at the memory of it. At least he could move without looking like a complete buffoon. His eyes flickered across people left over from the attack, shaken.

No one was doing a damned thing. A sigh left his nose and he shifted onto his feet. “If anyone’s listening, I’m going to go on a walk.”

“For what?” Blackwall, a grungy picture of a man, looked up from the crate he rested on. “Searching for what’s left of Haven? Do you have a shovel? You’re going to need it.”

A frown pulled Dorian’s lips. He didn’t feel like humoring the man with a response.

“Could he? Yes. Maybe… It’s small. Hope. Sometimes light burns brightest in the blackest of darkness.” The voice sent a small chill skittering up Dorian’s spine. He turned to see the hat crouched in the snow and pale fingers sticking out from underneath tattered arm sleeves.

Eyes narrowing, Dorian frowned deeply at the boy. Or thing. A sliver of uneasiness ran up his spine. “I don’t suppose you’re going to explain yourself? Or perhaps the air of unnaturalness fuels you.” He raised a brow and drew his eyes back towards the advisors. The Seeker looked like she was ready to slam a fist into someone’s jaw. How much of it, he wondered, was anger at another versus the loss-

“Loss of him, it stabs. Like a small blade pressing against his skin-” The hat continued.

“Stop,” Dorian demanded, quickly. His skin flushed with a small shrill of fear. He stepped away from both him and Blackwall to turn his squinting gaze towards Haven. The cold air nipped at his skin, diving through his armor. Heating spells fought against it, pressing feeble warmth against Dorian’s skin.

The night sky pressed down upon their temporary camp, reminding them that the day had hardly passed. Cresting over a snowy hill, a group of Inquisition soldiers walked towards them. Dorian’s throat tightened. None of them looked like the Herald. A long breath left Dorian’s lungs and he stared down at the snow.

Someone stepped up beside him, white hands tight around a staff. “It wouldn’t be smart for the Inquisition to stay here much longer,” Solas said quietly. A frown pulled his lips and a wrinkle formed between his brows. Dorian cast him a side glance and vaguely wondered how the elf managed to keep warm with that bald head of his. And in the rags he called clothes.

“I can almost be certain our dear Commander is giving that speech.” Dorian sighed through his nose and glanced back towards the advisors. They parted ways, each looking just as frustrated as the next. His lips pressed into a thin line.

“Actually,” Blackwall said, stepping up beside Dorian again, “the Commander is advocating for more search parties for the Herald. Sister Nightingale says it’s better for us to move on, we’re not safe out here.” He frowned and glanced around them. “It’s cold, it will only take a matter of time before we run out of supplies. We need to regather, and strengthen.”

Irritation scratched the back of Dorian’s skull and he narrowed his gaze at one of the wounded soldiers. He breathed out through his nose, his hands tightening into fists. The irritation was unreasonable, he tried to tell himself. There was no reason to be so devastated over a single person. His eyes scouted the camp until he saw her; Sera sat on a low crate, head bowed and arms loosely wrapped around her legs. Her bow lay discarded beside her. “At some point we might want to recover the Herald’s body,” Solas said.

Dorian had to school himself into resisting a flinch. He looked at the elf. “You’re certain?”

“No one can be certain.” Solas’ hands tightened on his staff and his eyes cut towards Dorian. “Do you still wish to lead this grandiose rescue mission of yours?”

A smirk filled Dorian’s lips, but he didn’t feel very humorous at the moment. “You assumed I wished to search for the Herald? I simply wanted a warm place to stay. But if we’re all determined to stay miserable and cold, then let’s, shall we?” He turned away from them and stalked away. Anger burned inside of him, but did little to fight against the cold.

The thought of the Herald trapped underneath mounds of snow did little improve his mood.

 

* * *

 

Sunlight peeked over the horizon, spilling across an indigo sky. It cut across lingering stars, spilling bright yellows and blues into the morning. Dorian leaned against a cart, nearly as numb as his toes, watching the sun crawl over hills of rolling snow. He was close enough to hear yet another search party approach the others. This one lead by both the Commander and the limping Seeker.

Still in her shiny golden attire, Josephine stood on her toes. Her lips flat-lined, and her brows creased together. A gentle shake of the Commander’s head told Dorian more than enough. No sign of the Herald. His heart spilled to the snow with another bout of disappointment.

Fatigue weighed heavily behind his eyelids, pressing against his brain. He blinked and stared mindlessly at the horizon once again. Far off, Solas stood alone. He looked like a man ready to begin a journey.

Yet Dorian felt like a wagon missing a wheel. His head bowed and he stared down at his feet. Parts of his muscle pinched and whimpered from pain. Bruises and dried crusted blood clung to his skin. They felt like memories of something disconnected to him.

The attack replayed in his mind. Dorian kept telling himself ways things could have changed. If he had just made sure the Herald was on his tail, or if he had stayed to make sure the Herald was there, or if he had…

A pained breath leaked from his lungs and he closed his eyes, shaking his head. If there was anything for him to do, it would have been to search for the Herald. But Dorian doubted that he would have ever found a man buried underneath mounds of snow.

Dorian swallowed thickly, ignoring the knives in his throat. He stepped around the cart, half looking for a cot, half looking towards Haven.

The Herald should be stepping over the hill. Perhaps limping, half bent from pain and exhaustion. But he should be there. The idiotic man would probably smile at them, a half sarcastic comment falling from his lips while relief filled his eyes. Sera would scream happiness but the Seeker would be first by his side.

Except no one was there. The small bottleneck to Haven was empty.

And the Herald was dead.

 

* * *

 

Hands cupped around his face, Dorian whispered a spell into the palm of his hands. Heat wrapped around his skin, trailed down his arms. It traced along his skin before running out, like a spark dancing through the air. People moved in mass around him, a river pushing across new ground to find its new bed.

He heard quiet whimpers and weeping. Few people whispered, most found themselves lost in the silence. Dorian stared ahead of him, his brows falling together. He needed to be alone. The need for solitude thrummed through him, tugging him like rope. His body felt sluggish, and his skin heavy.

The world didn’t feel as if it was tilted at the right axis. Dorian sighed through his nose and his eyes dropped to the ground. “Did you happen to move some of the supplies?” A quiet, soft voice whispered across cold air.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dorian spotted one healer whispering to another. “No, I haven’t. Why?” The other replied, a frown tugging their lips.

Dorian shook his head and he crossed his arms at some meager attempt to withhold heat. Snow swallowed his feet at every step. He knew that by the end of his trip, his thighs and calves wouldn’t forgive him for a while. “Just… a bit of supplies went missing the other day. Nothing big, but we could use every bandage.”

Ahead of him, the Seeker walked around the groups of people, walking against the current. Her sharp eyes searched through the crowd, face tight with its usual scrutiny. There were a lot of questions Dorian had. Some of which circled around where Solas lead them, others around the missing Herald. Or dead Herald. Sighing heavily, Dorian ran his cold fingers through his snow-speckled hair. He wondered if not searching for the Herald would be a life regret, something that he would think of years later; in small moments, like before he slipped into bed to sleep. An incessant little bug that would itch underneath his skin: _You never looked for him, and he died._

Birds flew overhead, dark feathers stark against the bright day. Clouds muddled the blue sky, promising more snow. The air smelled crisp and cold, stinging the inside of Dorian’s lungs. He brought his hands up to his mouth again, to whisper yet another warming spell when his eyes met with the Seeker.

A deep frown pulled her lips and she stomped towards him. Dorian wondered how she could continue to clamber around with so much energy, especially after the fight and the injuries she sustained. She stepped up beside him and thickly said, “Have you seen the boy?”

“Ah, good day to you too, Lady Seeker.” Dorian’s lips pulled into a thin smile. His solitude lay shattered on the ground before him.

The woman’s face twisted with minor irritation, and she let out a grunt. “The one who showed up at the gates to warn us of the red templars. No one has seen him recently.”

“We’re really not worried over _that_ singular person, are we?” _If he is a person at all,_ Dorian added inwardly. He shook his head and quickly said, “No, I have not seen him. But I do promise to give you word if I do.”

Without so much of a farewell, the Seeker trudged off through the snow. Dorian watched her receding form before falling back into the droning march towards wherever and away from the Herald. He sighed, again. Face falling, he stared at the horizon line, waiting for something to crawl into view. People, he supposed, fell into different obsessions when battling a harsh reality. He wondered if the Seeker pinpointed her obsession towards Cole, momentarily.

His spine whispered with unease at the curiosity of what might be her obsession next.

The horizon continued to pull itself up in front of him. He waited for something new to make its mark over the hill. Something of a form to crawl into view. Anything. The whiteness of the snow around him began to feel dreary and annoying. Everything simplified itself into coldness.

Like the hollow ache of losing a friend.

 

* * *

 

_We’ve received word. Morale has plummeted and even a few of the scouts are eying to leave, to return to whatever life they came from before. I am uncertain what to think. Harding still holds her chin high, with her jaw set in determination. But I can see her eyes shine at certain times of the day. She met the Herald, after all. I find myself too careful to ask her what he was like._

_Silence has fallen upon us. No one wants to talk about what happened. Our determined pace back towards Haven has tapered off._

_The crow’s letter told us that the Inquisition makes way towards a new holding. Haven is lost, buried under rock and snow. And the Herald is dead. I almost feel as if we hold vigil for him, heading back towards the Inquisition._

_And I also wonder if the Herald had anyone to honor his death, the way that the Dalish practice._

_Some of the others look at this as the end, as a final defeat. But I can only think that it’s the beginning. The Inquisition banded together to make things right. And things are hardly right in the world right now._

_The job is far from being done._

 

* * *

 

Consciousness came to him a piece at a time, drifting to him aimlessly. Pain came first. It sparked like flint hitting steel, burning through him. His fingers twitched. Parts of his body felt mauled, as if a bear had rammed into him with all its weight, thirty times over. His bones ached, and the side of his head felt like someone with a gauntlet continued to knock on his skull.

It meant he was alive. His body felt numb with the idea, and thoughts were like evading wisps, whispering through his mind. Other pieces of consciousness fell into place. Like the cold, or the whisper of dead wind.

Then a sound. A twisting of brambles, wood scratching wood. His eyes fluttered open and a boy sat beside a small tent of wood. Brows furrowed in concentration, he focused on his work, determined for a fire. In the blue light of the cavern, the boy’s eyes shined green.

Cyrlen’s heart echoed hollowly in his chest.

“I’m not him,” the boy said. Eyes flickered up to greet him, and the scene changed ever so slightly. It was a hat, or rather, a man wearing a hat. A man with imperfect skin, nearly ghastly pale even against the ice. “Sorry,” the hat said. The apology felt genuine despite its short delivery.

A long breath leaked from Cyrlen’s lungs and he rested his cheek against the cold ground. He didn’t dare move a single muscle.

“It’s cold,” the hat muttered. “You need warmth.”

Lashes fluttering against his cheek, Cyrlen choked on another breath. He willed himself to look at the pitiful gathering of wood. “Wet wood won’t strike,” Cyrlen said. His voice came out raw and dry, like old fabric ripping apart.

The hat lifted towards him. “You’ll die.”

A hum broke into Cyrlen’s mouth and his lips fell into a wry curve. “Dying of the cold, versus an arch demon and being buried by rocks? It’s near irony.” The man didn’t respond. Breathing in deeply, Cyrlen rolled himself onto his elbows. His head bowed and he stared down at the frozen ground. A chilled numbness whispered in his limbs, stinging his fingers and the tips of his ears. Carefully he pulled himself towards the man, his limbs aching with strain.

Pain flickered across him, flashing in his head and skipping across his ribs. He focused on his breath through his nose, determined.

Wood plopped into view, just above his nose, and the man followed soon after, plopping to the ground like an eager dog awaiting command. “It’s a little dryer,” the man offered.

Cyrlen collapsed and stared up at him, resting his cheek against his arm. His lips twitched, marking on the humor of it, before exhaustion pushed it away. “Don’t suppose you could have told me to stay put?”

“You needed it, to move,” the man said, confused.

With a sigh, Cyrlen reached out a hand. He sought the driest of the wood. His fingers finally caught the edge of a dry plank. Closing his eyes, he focused inward. His magic felt abused, further than usual. He coaxed it, encouraging it to whisper into his veins. The Anchor sent a pulse up his arm in response, quieting the aches of his body for a moment.

Cyrlen opened his eyes and called a flame to his fingertips. It danced around the wood for a bit, ignoring the damp thing. Desperation pulled through Cyrlen and he called forth more magic. The Anchor sent another shocking pulse through him, and a sharp whisper of pain followed it. The flame at his hand strengthened. His fingers began to thaw.

Finally, it touched the wood and rolled itself onto it, like a slug finding purchase. Cyrlen let his hand fall against the cool ground and he stared at his tiny little flame. The young man leaned in close to it, the flames flickering in his eyes. “The wood is still wet,” he whispered.

A quiet smile pulled Cyrlen’s lips. “It’ll catch.”

The man stared at him, eyes wide and open like a child’s. Curious. “Try not to sleep,” the man urged.

Cyrlen let out a breath through his nose and nodded. His very soul pulsed sorely. Very slowly, fire nibbled away at parts of the wood. Its warmth grew. Light streaked through their lonely cavern, pressing against frozen ground. He studied the snowflakes that drifted down, doomed to brush against the flame of the fire and die.

“You miss him,” the man said quietly.

Wordlessly, Cyrlen nodded again. His hand hovered away from the flame, soaking in the dry warmth. He breathed in through his nose. “He died.”

Eyes met him across the flames. “They think you’re dead, too.”

“They’re okay then?” Cyrlen whispered. “Sera? Cassandra…?”

“Dorian,” the man nodded. He seemed to pluck the name from Cyrlen’s own thoughts. “They’re all safe. They’re going somewhere, where the one with a shiny head leads them.” His eyes fell aside. “They searched. But snow is cold, and it gets colder. You’re too hard to find, for them.”

They left him. Cyrlen’s fingers twitched and his hand dropped. “What’s your name?”

“Cole. It’s okay not to remember.” Cole held a hand close to the fire. “Sometimes I make people forget. You just forget.”

A smile twitched the corner of Cyrlen’s lips. “I do. Cole. Cole, I think you should go find help for me.” He let out a deep breath and reached to grasp the man’s hand. His fingers curled around Cole’s deadly cold fingers. “I need help. I won’t be able to follow after them.”

The man stared at him and nodded. “Okay. Make the fire stay.” He slid away from Cyrlen, and disappeared from the air. For a few quiet moments, Cyrlen began to doubt he was even there in the first place.

Pushing himself up, Cyrlen decided he needed to try his best to “make the fire stay”, whether or not the man was real.

 

* * *

 

A blanket of cold told Cyrlen he had fallen asleep. His eyes cracked open. Darkness pressed down around him, with only a small whisper of light spreading through a hole above him. He let out a long careful breath, forcing himself up. A flash of agony ripped through him, and he slammed down onto his knees again. Nausea pulsed in his chest, filling his throat. He heaved, spit coating his mouth. Nothing came from his empty stomach.

Again, Cyrlen heaved, with another wave of pain crashing over him. Clenching his jaw, he breathed in through his nose. Cyrlen squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on his breath. He held himself still for a moment, clenching his muscles. Then he forced himself up.

Stumbling onto his feet, he stared ahead of him. Dizziness rushed over him and he tripped, nearly pitching over. He stayed still, focusing on the sound of his gasps, and waited for the room to settle. The shadows eventually stopped shifting, and a path unfolded before him. A wooden ramp lead up to a tunnel. Carefully, Cyrlen glanced around him. It was the only way.

He started forward. Pain ebbed in his ankle, and his knee. It stabbed everywhere along his side, and along his head. His progress was slow. It irritated him, flaring some warmth into his cold body. Like a snail crawling along the ground to get from one side of the pathway to the other, only to inevitably be crushed.

_They left me._ The words whispered from the back of his mind, sitting along with his doubts. Needless things. But he rolled them over, and tasted the words on the tongue: “They left.” His voice made him flinch, echoing weakly off frozen walls and dancing between icicles hanging from the roof.

A logical side of him couldn’t bring himself to find reason in his anger. _Why would they look for someone, a single person, when there’s an entire people to look after?_ But it lingered, like a pit in his lungs; and it fueled him, burning inside of him.

The light from the hole faded the further Cyrlen crawled into the tunnel. The Anchor in his hand sparked grumpily, chasing away a bit of the darkness. He pushed himself forward, forcing himself to stay upright. It felt as if he walked for days. Body shaking with exhaustion, Cyrlen muttered underneath his breath. He found himself murmuring a lullaby.

Even after all these years, he remembered the first time he heard it. Sitting on a rock, Cyrlen had sat on a log and spread frost over a leaf with magic. A baby’s cry had cut across their camp, startling him. His eyes had ripped away from the leaf to a woman holding a child close to her breast. She had rocked it back and forth, and the lullaby strung from her lips. He had found himself as enraptured as the baby, staring at the woman with widened eyes and perked ears.

Then, years later, when he found his brother crying, he had sung the song to him, too.

Underneath his feet, the ground disappeared. Cyrlen felt a moment of panic before he pitched forward. The air let go of him, and he rushed down. His body slammed against the ground, and in moments his conscious fled.

 

* * *

 

“It hurts because you care and it feels like they didn’t.”

A fire crackled just inches in front of him, filling him with warmth. He stared numbly ahead of him, watching the flames flicker back and forth, and between the orange he spotted another figure. Cyrlen took in a breath, squinting. He looked around him till he spotted Cole crouching beside him, peering at him like a bird inspects a worm. Cyrlen filled his lungs with a word, but it left his mouth as a wheeze.

“They left because they had to. Not because they wanted to.” Cole frowned, mouth turning to the side. “You fell.”

“Mm.” Cyrlen closed his eyes. “The fire left,” he whispered.

“It’s here. And help.” Cole sat back.

Fatigue weighed down on him, and he drifted away. Warm hands on his face woke him. Eyes cracking open, he stared up at at honey colored eyes. A pale face stared down at him, pressed with concern. “Try drinking,” the stranger commanded. His deep voice shocked Cyrlen, ricocheting off the walls. A waterskin pressed against Cyrlen’s lips, and warm water dribbled into his mouth. He choked, and pain prickled across his ribs. Water filled his mouth, and he forced himself to swallow it.

The stranger pulled back and studied Cyrlen. “You look like you’ve been dragged around by a horse all throughout Thedas.” The man frowned.

“More like a dragon,” Cyrlen said.

A quiet piece of laughter from Cole caused Cyrlen to smile. The man raised a brow and rocked back on his heels. “You’re awake. That’s good. I’ve a horse, but it won’t get us far in this weather. Not with you like this.”

Cyrlen’s brows tightened together and he muttered, “I need to return to the Inquisition.”

“So you _are_ him,” the man murmured thoughtfully. He ran a thumb across his lips, staring thoughtfully down at Cyrlen. “With that mark on your hand, I wasn’t sure. But you’re the Herald.”

“Something like that,” Cyrlen said. He let out a sigh and his brows fell together. “How much sooner can we go?”

A smile cracked onto the man’s lips, humor filling his eyes. “Get some rest, Herald. We’ll leave when I trust you won’t die on my horse.”

 

* * *

 

  _Skyhold. The name is strange to me. But I suppose my name would be strange to anyone else. The place is large, a fortress. We’ll be safer here. Or at least, that’s what I’ve heard._

_The place is impressive from afar. It crests over the snowy hills. I was amazed the first time I saw it. It at first looked like a painting, unreachable to me; but every step brought me closer and the fortress grew._

_A strange thing happened. Upon reaching Skyhold, people called out, crying that the Herald had returned. It was just me._

_I wonder if it’s hard for others to tell elves apart. We must all look the same, with marks on our faces and sharp ears. Even if it wasn’t my fault, I couldn’t help but feel guilty to crush the hopes of others._

_Harding explained to me later that the Herald was a mage just like myself, and that we look similar. Our eyes are green, our hair brown. Strange to look so similar to someone I’ve never met, to be mistaken for him. I wanted to ask Harding more, but a touch of sadness filled her eyes._

_I almost want to wear a cowl, to hide my face and duck my head. I can’t help who I look like, or what I am._

_I wait for the Inquisition to organize itself again, to send me out once again so that I might avoid the sad eyes hopeless people._

 

* * *

 

“Ah. There we are. Pretty as the dawn.” Dorian stood back, hands on his hips. “Well, it isn’t home of course. But it’s something.” Sweat beaded through his hair and prickled on the small of his back. He smiled to himself, at the quaint little area he’d worked for. “A comfortable chair, decent rug, light, and books! What else could you ask for?”

“That I’m not certain,” Solas responded, voice dry as if the man was quite certain, yet decided it was less energy spent to just agree.

Dorian ignored the dry tone and stepped over towards the balcony, peering over to the bald elf. The man studied his couch, as if the round room was a puzzle he had to decipher. “No paints today?” Dorian asked.

“No wine for you?” Solas quipped.

The man was insufferable. Dorian rested his head on his hand, studying the shine from the candles atop the elf’s head. “Someone obviously isn’t in the mood for gentlemanly conversation.”

A long sigh left Solas and his eyes cut up towards Dorian. Even so far below, his gaze held weight. “If you’re itching for company, why don’t you seek out the Commander. I’m sure he would have something for you to do.”

Dorian frowned deeply, eyes narrowing. He refused to be sent off, like some child. Standing up straight, he turned back towards his alcove. The light that pooled in from the window cast an almost purple sheen on the space. Breathing in through his nose he stepped over towards his window, eyes heavy. He wondered what it might be like to show the Herald his little room. _And see?_ Dorian would say, _The view is great! Something to remind me that life isn’t all stone and wood._

The Herald’s own image nearly materialized before him. He could imagine the soft smirk the Herald would cast him, over his thin shoulder. _Of course you would consider it a view,_ the Herald might say, _protected by stone and walls. It’s nothing compared to the forest._

_Yes. It’s lacking the mud, the bugs, oh, and what else? The cold, the-_ Dorian felt a small twitch of his lips, the Herald’s laugh echoing in his mind. His smile dropped. With a long sigh, Dorian drew himself over to the chair and unceremoniously fell into it. He stared across the tower, to people scrambling around in an attempt to put books in order. His energy slipped away from him, disappearing among the muttered voices and pursed lips.

Tapping his finger against the arm of the chair, he let his eyes fall to a pile of books, pressed up against a bookcase. His skin prickled, and his muscles felt twitchy. He felt the need to surge forward, to grab a book and scour through it, or run from one side of the keep to the other. Except tiredness weighed on his shoulders, wearing down on his eyes and joints. How unfair, Dorian thought, to be so antsy and tired at the same time.

His brows pressed together and he frowned down at the stack of books.

What would he have found, he wondered, if he had just sought out the Herald.

 

* * *

 

The script on the page began to blur and mash together. His eyes ached from the strain, sending sharp pangs into his skull. Frowning deeply, Dorian sighed and squinted up at the flickering candle. His neck held a hollow ache, from bending over for so long. Further than four to five feet from him looked blurry, his eyes too tired to focus faster. Closing his eyes, Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose and let his head fall back.

At night, Skyhold fell asleep. The pitter patter of feet calmed and slowed to an occasional pair of footsteps. Creaks and groans became more apparent, like the creak of the door to the ramparts. Dorian breathed in through his nose and rubbed his eyes, his brows pinching together. Never before had he felt so useless in his life. _I should have looked for him_ , he thought, gut pinching uncomfortably. Feet clapped against the circular room down below. Above his head, crows cried out to another. He imagined their feathers ruffling in an indignified manner, and their large, intelligent eyes.

A long breath left him and he sat up. Frowning down at the book, he clapped it closed and set it aside. The more reasonable side of him told to find a place to sleep, while the other thought of the tavern and the decent wine served there.

Cassandra stepped into the entrance of his alcove, her critical eyes narrowing on him. “They’d said you would be here,” she said, voice tight as if she disapproved.

Straightening, Dorian raised his brows. “Lady Seeker, it’s a bit late for you to be searching for someone to lecture.”

Her frown deepened. Stepping forward, Cassandra dropped a sack into Dorian’s lap. “You weren’t at dinner. Again.”

Confusion pinched Dorian and he stared down at the sack. Carefully, he pulled it open. A stale piece of bread, an apple, and some cheese settled inside. He raised a brow and glanced up at the Seeker. “Excuse me for my confusion, but you’ve never shown concern for my eating habits before.”

“You were close to the Herald,” Cassandra said, her voice softening a pinch. Her brows came together woefully. “You didn’t know him as long, but you… understood him. The two of you understood another, and I would know he would find you daft if you skipped dinners.” She hesitated. “It’s quieter, somehow. Sera’s been absent too. Now that I think about it, that might have something to do with it.”  Cassandra held his gaze and held up an item wrapped carefully in cloth. “There’s also this. I found it when we went on that search party. I think you’ll have more use for this.”

Dorian took the item from her, too shocked and tired to say something truly clever. The Seeker paused to study him before she nodded to herself and stomped off. He stared after her until she disappeared from his view, and then his eyes fell onto the item. Carefully, he unwrapped it. His breath caught in his throat. Worn wood peeked out from the brown fabric, marks incised along the length. The Herald’s staff. Or, at least what was left of it. He set the food aside and set the broken weapon in his lap. It had snapped into at least three places; pieces of it were missing.

Carefully, he held up the top section of the staff, examining it closely. Parts of the wood were worn down, by the Herald’s hands. His finger traced over the incisions. _Always taking the blame for yourself, aren’t you my dear Herald._ Dorian slumped into the chair and stared up at the ceiling. He listened to the quiet mutterings of Leliana and Cassandra.

His breath came thick and slow. Eyes falling closed, he shook his head. The back of his eyes prickled, and his lashes dampened. Each breath stung like needles pricking into the weak flesh of his lungs. He could imagine the sympathetic pull on the Herald’s lips. _At least now I’m not the one making a fool of myself,_ he might say, but his tone would be gentle. His eyes would be soft.

_How many conversations will I have of you in my head, Herald?_ Dorian breathed out through his nose. He wished there were a way to send a message to the dead.

There were a few people he needed to send word to.

 

* * *

 

The moon hung in the dark sky, peeking through thick gray clouds. Dorian stepped idly through darkened Skyhold, lit only by a few torches. Few people walked the grounds at night. He stepped carefully along the rubble. Pieces of stone crunched underneath his boots, despite his care. Dorian whispered a heating spell, the motion nearly becoming habit, and felt a small relief from the chilly night air.

Somehow things were quieter at night. Smoother, and less jaunting. Less people watched him, and the near silence held room for clear thought. He passed the barn that Blackwall claimed for himself. Befitting, Dorian supposed. With a quiet smile, Dorian wondered if he would start seeing pieces of hay in the man’s beard.

An owl called out in the quiet night, flying over Skyhold. It dove moments later, to prey that Dorian didn’t see. Groups of people gathered around small fire pits, muttering to themselves. They whispered of the Herald, and where the Inquisition might go next. People talked of their stories, where they had come. A few of the faces Dorian recognized as mages. He neared gate of Skyhold, where the groups became more sparse. Tents were erected off to the side, where healers still worked late into the night. A soldier rushed through the gates, sprinted past him. His eyes narrowed at their receding form before he threw a glance towards the towering gate. Pressing his lips together, he walked towards the gate and stopped at the threshold.

Something whispered in the foggy darkness. Noise echoed off into the empty mountain. Dorian squinted, catching the form of something. His heart stuttered in his chest with a small shrill of fear. The dark form cleared, and his heart relaxed. It was a horse.

Its hooves clattered against the stone. He pressed his lips together and whistled. Its ears flickered at the sound and it slowed down, stopping in front of him. It breathed heavily out through its nose, watching Dorian with large, dark eyes. A wild clattering of feet sounded behind him. Dorian glanced behind his shoulder and saw a group of soldiers, with the Commander at the front. Immediately the Commander started towards him and said, “A scout spotted a rider on this horse, but was unable to identify them-”

A quiet groan prickled Dorian’s ears. His eyes shot forward and he peered around the horse. Someone draped over the back of the animal, dark cloak covering them. Their breaths were shallow and weak. Slowly, their body pitched to the side. Dorian lurched forward, his arms out to catch them. A body crashed into him, though it was unhealthily light. He carefully adjusted the stranger in his arms, doubting they would be able to stand on their own. The Commander rushed up to his side with a torch. “Who is it? A refugee?”

The cowl slid off of the figure and a bruised face shown underneath flickering frame. Disbelief crashed through Dorian and he nearly dropped the figure. Cullen swore under his breath, shock stretching his face.

Dorian choked on air and his lips trembled in disbelief. The Herald’s eyes cracked open. Hazy eyes flickered around slowly before landing on Dorian. A slow smile pulled the corner of the Herald’s lips. Three words creeped from the Herald’s lungs, cracking through his lips:

“I made it.”

 

* * *

 

 

_The Herald lives._

_I can’t believe it. All of Skyhold is waking up and rushing around. Some have broke into thick tears, praying to their Maker._

_I caught sight of him, the Herald, being rushed into Skyhold. He looked weakened and small, though I couldn’t clearly see his face. A young man followed him, unnoticed by the others. He wore a hat._

_I’m not sure how I feel._

_I’m shocked. It feels unreal, like a dream that I might wake from._

_People are whispering that Andraste protected the Herald, brought him back to life from the very snow. I wasn’t there when Haven was attacked. I still don’t know what to think of everything, about Andraste or other beliefs._

_I’m only relieved. Inquisition feels a step closer to being itself again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact!! The mysterious man is actually a really important character. 
> 
> You can just shrug him off though. In this story, he's not super important.
> 
> Only just incredibly handsome and very well-weathered.
> 
> Credit of the character goes to Cat!


	8. In Between Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever accidentally watched someone sleep? As in, wow, they're right there. Just totally sleeping. Nothing else in the room to really look at. And they're kinda cute? Their mouth does this weird twitchy thing and you kinda want to maybe kiss them? Maybe? 
> 
> And then there's the fact that they just came back from the dead and you kinda left them to die, but, you know, they're sleeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are so awesome. Thank you for reading my work! I know I've been busy as heck, so thank you so much for all your patience. 
> 
> Every kudo and every comment means a lot--I can't even begin to tell you how much. Let's just say I start smiling like a weirdo. Thank you for taking the time to give me your thoughts!
> 
> Lastly, [Cat](http://psychoticcupcake.tumblr.com/), as always, you're a life line for me. Without her, I can't guarantee things would be running so smoothly!
> 
> (So much gratitude in this note, but I really mean it!!! I'll give more exclamation marks to prove my point!!!!!! !!! !!!!!!!)

Cold air seeped through her tunic, chilling her skin. Adrenaline ticked in her chest, and drummed in her ears. Wooden stairs creaked under each pounding foot, driving her up. Flailing servants and healers rushed up and down the stairs, all too startled to utter a whisper. Cassandra weaved through more bodies. Shock stained her face. The Herald…  _ Cyrlen.  _ Her lungs tightened.

People spilled from a lit room. A few entered. A few stood back. Whispers filled the darkened hallway. Cassandra caught the word  _ “revived”  _ and air swelled into her lungs. Gritting her teeth, she shoved her way into the room. Humidity slammed into her, summoning sweat on her skin. Cassandra breathed heavily, stepping past Cullen’s wide shoulders into a small circle surrounding a bed.

“So it’s true,” Cassandra said, disbelief cutting her lungs.

A healer shot her an irritated glance. She ignored it and turned her wide eyes towards Cullen. The Commander looked lost, a deep wrinkle formed between his brows. His eyes tore from Cyrlen, sensing her gaze, and landed on her. “One of the scouts spotted a rider on a horse,” he explained, vaguely.

Tongue heavy, Cassandra turned back towards the Herald. It took her two brief seconds to recognize the “healer” as Dorian. The mage leaned over the Herald, his hands carefully skimming over Cyrlen’s arms and chest. “He passed out,” the man said, eyes drawn carefully. He always had an air that irked Cassandra, but she suspected that it be the mask he wore for them. Sometimes she saw him without that mask, when he would sit next to the Herald with a wide, warm smile and clever eyes.

“Do we know anything?” Cassandra said, her brows pressing together. Stepping forward, she couldn’t stop herself from peering into the Herald’s face. Bruises patterned his cheeks and eyes, discoloring his skin. Her jaw tightened and she followed the cuts down his chest. Bandages wrapped around him haphazardly, some stained with blood and others tattered by wear.

“Other than he made it, no,” Dorian said. His eyes flickered up towards Cassandra. Underneath the warm candlelight, they flickered bronze. “The horse wasn’t very chatty.”

Normally the sharpness of Dorian’s voice would have bothered Cassandra, but it was a thousand times better than the façade he had been wearing these past few weeks. Jaw tightening, Cassandra dropped her eyes down towards the Herald. More people burst into the small room, some carrying buckets, bandages, and parchment.

Irritation burned in Dorian’s eyes and the muscle in his jaw twitched. Cassandra took in a breath and called, “Alright! Everyone who isn’t needed, out  _ now. _ Cullen.” She placed a hand on his arm, looking into his eyes. “We should have a meeting. Wake the ambassador and Leliana if they haven't already woken.”

People began to leak from the room, like sloths tip-toeing away. Cullen hesitated before joining the slow stream, his brows furrowed in deep thought. Thoughts ran across his eyes, telling Cassandra all she needed to know: they should have kept searching for the Herald.

“Thank you,” Dorian said quietly. His eyes drew back up towards Cassandra.  

“Can you take care of him?” Cassandra raised a brow. “Or shall we summon help?”

The mage’s lips thinned. He moved his mouth to answer, only to stop and stare behind her. Cassandra threw a glance over her shoulder.

Clutching onto the doorway, Sera breathed heavily with wild eyes. Her short hair lay in a fuzzy mess atop her head, and her clothes were askew as if she had thrown them on as a second thought. Sera took half a step forward.

“He’s alive,” Dorian promised, voice midway between comfort and grudging kindness.

Sera flinched and her face fell into a squishy glare. She shot a glance towards Cassandra and Dorian. “That’s all good, innit?” She choked, her voice weak. “Thought it was all shite, yeah? Like last time.”

“It’s him,” Dorian assured.

The elf’s mouth twitched with a word. Her eyes shined and she shook her head. Voice shaking, she vehemently hissed, “Arse it!” Turning on her heel, she shoved her way out of view.

“She’s as insistent as the Herald. Is it some sort of elf-like behavior, to blame yourself?” Dorian said thinly.

Mouth tight, Cassandra shot glance towards him. As if he, of all people, could talk. “People deal with things differently,” Cassandra said blandly. “One might even isolate himself in the library with a bottle of wine.”

The irritation wiped clean from Dorian’s face, replaced by stretched brows and a loose mouth. Soon, his somber expression snapped back into place. “There’s already someone on the way,” Dorian said dryly. His eyes sharpened like steel. “Though as it seems to me, he’s already been taken care of. I dare say he only needs to rest now.”

Cassandra regarded him. “Then he’s in your care.” Her eyes dragged through the room and a frown weighed her lips. “Seeing as he is in your quarters. I’ll leave you to it.”

“You’ve not a thing to worry about,” Dorian said as she turned away.

With a brief nod Cassandra stalked towards the door. As she slipped through it, she saw Dorian’s eyes fall back onto the Herald. The façade he wore fell away and sorrow and regret filled his eyes. His hand curled around Cyrlen’s and he brought it to his lips. He whispered something against the Herald’s fingers. Cassandra closed the door as quietly as possible, withdrawn. The moment looked too intimate for prying eyes.

She let out a breath and ran a hand over her hair, being careful not upset her braid. The hallway still buzzed with vibrant activity, people muttering in the shadows between lit torches. Few were caught in tears. Cassandra whispered a silent prayer under her breath, making her way towards the war room. She passed through the large hall, filled with a gentle din of startled whispers.

“Hey, Seeker! Just the person I’m looking for,” a voice called.

Cassandra grit her teeth and couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. “Varric,” she spat in way of greeting. Crossing her arms, she braced her legs and turned her glare towards the dwarf. He shamelessly looked bed-tousled with a smile that others might find charming.

“Here I am just catching a bit of sleep when someone goes running down the hallway. Goes to show, there’s been talk of-” Varric started.

The man’s voice grated her. Eyes narrowed, Cassandra interrupted, “Yes. The Herald has returned.”  _ Or revived.  _ She itched to storm back towards Cyrlen, to shake him awake and demand answers.  _ Has Andraste brought you back? _

Cassandra mused that even if the Herald sat down and had tea with Andraste herself, he would likely deny her presence. She left the grinning dwarf behind, ignoring the way his eyes trailed after her, and stepped through the doors into Josephine’s make-shift office. A long sigh left her and her expression fell.

The soles of her shoes clapped against the stone, marking her steps towards the war room. Wind whistled in through a hole in the wall, and gently ran its icy fingers through her short hair. Halfway there, she could hear Leliana’s sharp, curling voice. “ _...how long it might take before… quisition is in need of….” _

Pausing just outside the room, Cassandra laid her hand against the cool wood. She allowed herself two breaths. The first was to allow her decisions to punch through her. She had left the Herald. They all had. They dragged themselves to Skyhold, without so much as a whisper of truth to see if Cyrlen had died.

The second was to allow the regret and relief wash over her all at once.  _ Alive.  _ The Herald was alive. Her shoulders lifted, and air cleansed her lungs. They still had a chance. Haven left all of them wounded and scared, and the loss of the Herald was an even harder hit. People believed in him. They saw a man who could change things. And now he’s back. Revived from snow and soot.

Cassandra stepped through the doorway, shoulders set and jaw strong. “The Herald lives,” she said aloud, for the merriment of the truth.

Josephine’s tired eyes flickered towards her, and relief spilled onto her face. A warm smile filled the ambassador’s lips and she nodded eagerly. “Yes! It’s momentous, and… oh, this changes everything!  _ Everything _ ! It will only take a matter of time before people hear of the revival-”

“We have to spread word,” Cullen said immediately. Years seemed to shed off his face, and a boy stood at the table. The heaviness of Haven’s defeat felt as if it rose off all of their shoulders. Cassandra withheld a smile and wondered if she would see just a bit more spring to people’s steps.

“I think rumors are already beginning to spur,” Leliana said wryly, her eyes drawn towards the war table. Even she couldn’t keep a bit of merriment out of her eyes. “We’ve so much we need to do.”

 

* * *

_ Only a few days after the Herald’s return, and the Inquisition already seems a buzz of activity and energy. Harding is eager to set out again, unable to keep on her seat. It’s a relief. Our loss at Haven will always sit on everyone’s minds, but the Herald’s return gives everyone hope. _

_ Here is the man who closed the breach. Here is the man who helped the single person as much as he did the whole.  _

_ It’s inspiring. Or perhaps I’ve been listening too closely to that bard in the tavern.  _

_ I find myself antsy, to give myself to the Inquisition. To show the same strength everyone else is holding. _

 

* * *

 

 

Bodies shifted outside of the window, like fuzzy ants crawling on the ground. Warm light pressed down against his tired skin, warming him. His room had been a cacophony of people and servants the entire night. Buckets and old bandages littered his floor, along with the Herald’s ragged armor.

Of all the times Dorian had thought of that man naked in his bed, this had  _ never  _ been an occurring image. A sigh left Dorian and he reached up to pinch between his brows. Regret clogged his throat, and needles threaded through his lungs. There was nothing on this world anyone could say to him that he wasn’t already saying to himself.

His lashes dampened and his lips thinned. Dorian turned to stare outside of the window, jaw tight. “You keep looking like that,” a thin voice cracked across the morning silence.

Dorian startled and pushed himself from his window seat. “You’re awake,” he said, stupidly. The Herald looked up at him, his lids heavy and skin ashen. A gentle smile curved the corner of his lips and he studied Dorian. Hesitantly, Dorian crossed towards him. “How are you feeling?”

Lavellan hesitated, brows pulling together. “Fine. Well…” Humor lit the man’s eyes. “Certainly a lot better than a few days ago.” His expression tightened as he moved to push himself up. Dorian held his breath. Pain filled the Herald’s eyes, and he collapsed back against the headboard with a long breath. His eyes closed. Dorian pondered if the man had fallen back asleep, then he asked: “Where’s Cole?”

“Cole?” Dorian echoed. A frown pulled his lips and he shook his head. “The one with a hat. Of course,  _ that’s  _ where he went to. To you.” His eyes dragged over Cyrlen’s form. The blankets pooled halfway down his torso, and the exposed skin looked marred enough for Dorian to ache for the man. Guilt caked his lungs like tar. A complete stranger had sought Lavellan out, and what had Dorian done? Sat with his thumb up his arse.

The Herald’s hand turned on the bed, his palm facing up and reaching towards Dorian. His eyes rested on Dorian, light green in the soft morning light. “Why the long face?” Lavellan asked gently.

Dorian couldn’t withhold himself. He stepped towards the bed and sat on the chair beside it. His hand curled around Lavellan’s own. It felt cold and fragile. “I had always thought my face was rather normally shaped, if not a bit handsome.” Dorian pulled on a smile and winked halfheartedly.

A blush dared to color the Herald’s skin, and his lips pulled with a smile. “I’m going to have to pry it from you, aren’t I?” Sighing, the Herald reached up to tug on one of the greasy locks falling in front of his face. The hair curled loosely, looking as tired as Lavellan was himself. “How is everyone?”

“Can’t imagine anyone was dandy after Haven,” Dorian said lightly. His eyes drew away from the Herald. Thoughts stormed his mind, and his chest ached. Apologies formed before dying on his tongue. Questions pressed gently but all seemed too mundane. Breathing in through his nose, he leaned away from the Herald and pushed both of his hands through his hair. Lavellan watched him with sharp eyes, peering underneath his skin. “The Commander’s been running every soldier into the ground—don’t get me started on Cassandra. That mercenary of yours won’t shut up about that archdemon. The Warden sulks in a barn. Solas is hardly one for company. And Sera...” He shook his head. “The Inquisition’s like a limping, headless dog that’s been pretending everything’s chipper and alright. I’m not going to lay it all out with sparkly gems and nonsense. Haven was a hard hit right in the jewels.”

“You stayed,” the Herald said gently, as if it were a shining light that eased the worst of it.

Dorian blinked. “What did you expect of me?”

Smiling, Lavellan held his hand out for him again. And again, Dorian took it. His stomach flipped. Voice raspy, the Herald muttered, “You came to warn us of Redcliffe. With that done, I hadn’t been certain if you were going to stay. And I had been too afraid to ask. I’m glad to see you’re still here.”

Warmth tickled Dorian’s heart. His skin pressed with the hint of a flush and he fought to keep the Herald’s gaze.  _ I could hardly just allow you to go on frolicking around without me, now could I?  _ He wanted to say that, to crack a flirtatious smirk and fluster the Herald into a new subject. Instead, words vomited from his mouth: “I can not fathom as to why you’re not brimming with anger.”

The Herald’s brows twitched up a hair. “For what, exactly?”

Jaw clenching, Dorian shook his head. “You’ve had to drag your arse through snow alone without provisions, all the while bearing appalling injuries. Did I mention you were alone-”

“I had help,” Lavellan said quickly.

“Not from me,” Dorian choked, and he quickly amended with a rush of warmth to his cheeks, “Not from the Inquisition.”

Understanding lit the Herald’s eyes. “You all had to leave. Spending effort and resources on someone who was believed dead… it’s ludicrous. The Inquisition needed to recoup and rebuild.”

“Had it been anyone else,” Dorian said, voice thin, “you would have exhausted every corner, every effort, to save every last person.”

Lavellan searched Dorian’s eyes, brows pinched together. Even with the bruises marring his skin, he still managed to be look put-together. As if he could march from the room and lead an army with no trouble. “There’s no point in regretting what can’t be undone.” The Herald took in a careful breath and held Dorian’s hand in both of his own. “I don’t blame you.”

Anger surged through Dorian. He yanked his hand away and shook his head. “I don’t see how you could not! You’re a fool, to be so forgiving, to so willfully accept how we’d frankly left you to die!”

“Dorian!” The Herald’s voice raised, cracking across the room. He leaned forward and captured Dorian’s face in his hands, forcefully staring into his eyes. Pain flashed across Lavellan’s face but he smothered it like a flame. Taking a deep breath, Lavellan quietly said, “Dorian. I’ve already forgiven you. And you’re going to forgive yourself. You’re a dear friend of mine, and I can’t afford to lose that. Not now.”

A sharp breath sliced through Dorian’s throat. He swallowed and his skin filled with a rushed heat.

“Now,” the Herald said, face softening. He wiped a thumb under Dorian’s eye, perhaps cleaning a bit of smudged kohl. “I hope I haven’t overstepped any boundaries, by calling you a friend.”

“You continue to astound me,” Dorian said quietly. He shook his head and grasped the man’s hand. “Sacrificing yourself, rising from the dead... calling me a friend.” 

“The first was stupid of me. The second isn’t true. And the third…” The Herald searched Dorian’s eyes, hesitant and shy.

A smile infected Dorian. “I could do for a friend. You know, the last few I had got into some mess of a cult.”

Relief filled Lavellan’s eyes. He sat back, carefully, against the headboard and shook his head. “So you’re the type attracted to drama! And I bet you start it, don’t you?”

Damn the Herald. Dorian laughed. His chest lightened, and he almost wanted to hate the way that he didn’t feel as bad anymore. “Oh, certainly! I love to watch others bicker over the most trivial of things!”

The Herald’s eyes warmed with laughter. It was perhaps one of the best feelings Dorian could account for.

 

* * *

 

_ People are itchy with anticipation, the Seeker Cassandra most of all. I saw her stomping along the ramparts with the Commander in tow, and the two almost looked as if they were arguing. I don’t know exactly what it was about, but I suspect it was the Herald.  _

_ From what I’ve heard, he’s been under close watch and care. And he’s been sleeping, a lot. None of us truly know what happened at Haven. We all have our suspicions, and I know Sister Nightingale has been looking into the Elder One, but answers have been few and sparse.  _

_ Especially with Inquisition still recovering from Haven.  _

_ I can only imagine what it must feel like, to be two breaths away from answers. _

 

* * *

The healer left the room with quiet orders that Dorian had already memorized. Wind rattled his windows, forcing the candle flames to flicker back and forth. A breath left Dorian and he held his head in his hands. Energy drained from him, like a hole in a keg that he couldn’t locate. He rubbed his eyes, smearing more of the kohl he had yet to wash from his face. 

A hand landed on his head. Fingers gently pushed through his hair. “You should get some rest.”

Dorian glanced up. Two eyes shined in the low light. A light smirk curved the edge of Dorian’s lips. “And you, dear Herald, should be resting too.” 

A soft sound left Lavellan. Something like a laugh. He rolled his head against the pillow and pursed his lips. “I’m a little cold,” he admitted.

“My, my. We can’t have that, can we?” Dorian reached up to grasp the man’s hand. He whispered a spell over his skin. Heat spread from his lips down the Herald’s arm. Lavellan watched him closely, face unreadable in the flickering candlelight. “Better?” Dorian purred.

Lips twitching, Lavellan shifted and held out his other hand for Dorian. 

Delight tickled Dorian’s insides and he brought the elf’s hand up to his lips. It took every single ounce of self discipline he had to not kiss the inside of the Herald’s wrist. Instead, he whispered another spell and watched the Herald relax. “As great of a heater I am, I think it would be best to find another blanket for you.”

“Perhaps,” Lavellan said, amusement glittering his eyes. “Dorian, I am serious about resting.”

“I would love to, except there’s a man in my bed. And I’m not quite certain how he would react to me crawling in beside him,” Dorian said, raising a brow. “Seeing as he just clarified the other night we’re friends.” 

The Herald’s face stretched with revelation. “Oh.” His lips pressed tightly together and he looked away from Dorian. 

Pulling away, Dorian stood and searched for the extra blankets and furs cast aside for him. He plucked the thickest from the pile and threaded another heating spell through the fabric. “I’m resting,” Dorian promised. “Not as well as I usually do.”  _ Though better than I have been this past month,  _ he added inwardly. “But there’s no need to worry.” Turning, he glanced back up at the Herald.

The elf had moved towards the edge of the bed and his eyes intensely studied the wall, as if it spoke scripture to him. Dorian’s brows collapsed together in confusion. 

Then revelation peeled itself open like a welcoming pair of arms. “Are…” His voice lost itself. Dorian swallowed his surprise and pulled on a grandeur. “My, my! First friends, now bedmates? Here now Herald, aren’t we skipping a few steps?” Dorian pulled on a wry smile and ignored the way his heart stammered in his chest.

Even in the dark of the room, Dorian could read the color that flushed the Herald’s skin. He gave Dorian an exasperated glance. “It… it is only fair. And I don’t mind. I’m used to being squished into small spaces and not to mention we’ve shared a tent before. How is this different?”

There were five things Dorian immediately thought of.  _ How is it different? Well, first of all, context, Herald. It’s a bed. What do you suppose people do in beds?  _ “I’m a horrendous bed partner.” Dorian waved a hand through the air. “I’m known to kick in my sleep.”

The Herald’s embarrassed smile turned sly. “I’ve known a few kickers in my days. I can handle it.”

Dorian took a step forward and searched the bright of Lavellan’s eyes.  _ Might I also mention your state of dress? I’m a weak, weak man, Herald.  _ “I steal blankets. It’s terrible, truly. I’m a hogger of all blankets.”

“I’d love to see you try,” the Herald raised a challenging brow.

At the side of the bed, Dorian leaned and pressed his hands against the mattress, peering into the elf’s eyes. His lips curled. “How do you know I’ll keep my hands to myself?” 

Hesitation filled Lavellan. Words formed behind his eyes, and his mouth pursed in thought. He took in a small breath, and his eyes fell to Dorian’s lips for a single moment.

The pit of Dorian’s stomach lurched and burned.

“Can’t imagine you would have much fun with me,” the Herald said, blushing. “Stinky, battered, bruised… I think some templar blood is still in my hair.”

“Mm, my  _ favorite,”  _ Dorian purred.

A smile filled Lavellan’s face, brightening it. Somehow it was more satisfying than making him flustered. “Then you’re welcome to share the bed,” the Herald said. “And don’t worry. I think it won’t be much longer before you can have the room to yourself again.” 

His throat clogged.  _ Right.  _ As much as Dorian loved watching this man sleep, the Herald would be on his feet soon enough, trapezing through all of Thedas in that dainty way of his. “And here I was getting used to a roommate.” Dorian smirked.

The Herald gave a fatigued laugh. “I’m not much of a roommate.” He let out a long breath. Dorian watched the Herald’s energy trickle away, like the sun slipping over the horizon. “Are you going to…?” Lavellan muttered.

As an answer, Dorian threw the blanket over the Herald and slid onto the bed. He stayed on his seat with a kind smile. “I’ll be here when you wake,” Dorian promised.

Relief touched the corner of Lavellan’s lips and he nodded. His eyes slid shut. The sun had set, and the Herald was fast asleep.

 

* * *

Something woke Dorian. Short, startled breath tickled his neck, and nails dug into his arm. “ _ H-Help”  _ a voice whispered. His eyes snapped open. An eerie green light spilled into his room. Panic rammed into Dorian at full force.  _ A rift,  _ he thought. Somehow a rift had opened in his room-

A near silent cry sounded beside him.  _ The Herald.  _

Lavellan writhed, a gasp heaving from his lungs. Dorian shot onto his seat, sweat curling the hair on the back of his neck. “Herald?” Dorian whispered.

Another breath left the Herald, his right hand clutching tightly onto his left wrist. The bright green light came from his hand. Lavellan moaned, pained. His mouth moved to soundless words. Fear pulled his naked face.

“Lavellan?” Dorian reached out a hesitant hand. 

The Herald let out a cry. Bright green soared into the room again, like a living, breathing pulse. He groaned between desperate breaths, brows pinched tightly together. “ _ D-Don’t-”  _ Lavellan begged. 

“Herald,” Dorian said. He reached out and grasped onto the elf’s thin shoulder.  _ Kaffas, how have I gone this long without knowing his name?  _  “Lavellan, wake up-” 

Eyes snapped open, glowing green like the mark. Startled, Dorian recoiled. The green faded away to the normal glow of Lavellan’s eyes. He let out a gasp, “A-A dream,” he whispered. Sitting up, the Herald clutched onto Dorian, a half sob breaking from his lips. “I-It was a dream-” His words cut off with a sharp breath. 

The mark let out another bright pulse. Clutching tightly onto his wrist, the Herald curled over. “I-It hurts,” Lavellan said, his voice as thin as a unraveling piece of cloth. 

Dorian moved before his thoughts settled into place. Both of his hands wrapped around the Herald’s left. He pushed soothing warmth into the Herald’s hand. A thin breath shuddered from the Herald’s mouth and he collapsed against Dorian. “Herald…?” Dorian asked quietly. 

The elf remained silent, his head rolling against Dorian. Lavellan’s muscles tensed, and his breath evened into the same length. Gradually, the green light faded from his palm and darkness crawled back into the room. 

Voices filtered in through the door. They quietly spoke of mundane things, something of a man who fell into a latrine. A natural calmness pressed around them. With his adrenaline fading away, Dorian was left with only fatigue. He breathed in, and wondered what one would say in this situation.

“I’m sorry.” Lavellan whispered.

Dorian withheld a flinch. Months ago he had turned away when the man had asked for his comfort. He refused to do that again. “I don’t see why you’re apologizing.” Dorian hesitantly wrapped an arm around the Herald’s small shoulders. “Does it do that... often?”

“You mean the Anchor?” The Herald asked. “The mark,” he clarified. “After Haven… it’s been acting up more than usual. I’m not sure what came first, honestly. The nightmare or the Anchor’s fit.” 

“You’re calling it ‘Anchor’ now,” Dorian said.

The Herald glanced up at him. He looked miserable. “There’s a lot that I haven’t explained, I suppose.” A long breath left the Herald and he shook his head. “I’m sorry.” 

A touch of humor curled Dorian’s lips. “Keep throwing around apologies like that, and I’ll feel as if you’re rejecting me, Lavellan.” 

“I doubt you’ve ever been rejected.” The Herald whispered. His eyes fell shut. 

_ And what has made you come to that conclusion, dear Herald?  _ Dorian mused inwardly. “I… am not too good at these things, as you know,” Dorian said quietly, before the subject ran too far from them. “But you mentioned a nightmare.” 

“Oh. Yes.” Lavellan sighed. “It was a mixture of things.”

“There’s no shame,” Dorian added gently. “You wouldn’t be the only one. After as much as you’ve been through, I would be surprised if you weren’t a bit unsettled by it.” 

A smile curled the corner of the Herald’s lips and he nodded. His smile faded. “It was the type of dream where I was running, and no matter how fast I ran I couldn’t get away. Different things chased me. An avalanche, the archdemon… demons.” The Herald studied the mark on his hand. 

The tilt of his lips and the crinkle of his brow itched Dorian.  _ He’s not telling me something,  _ Dorian realized. His lips pressed together and he glanced towards the window. Sentences formed in his mind, ways he could assure the Herald. Before he could utter a word, the Herald slid from his grasp and laid back down. 

“I think I’m going to try and sleep more,” the Herald said quietly. “I’m sorry for waking you.” He rolled onto his side, cutting Dorian out of his sight.

The Herald’s bare back faced him, filled with wounds that only time could heal.

 

* * *

 

_ It feels good to be on the road again. The nights are prettier without the large rift. It almost feels like home. I remember nights with the glittering sky above my head, and my brother whispering to me tales of the stars.  _

_ I can still remember the way his voice would dip, seconds before he’s about to say something to make me laugh.  _

_ I miss him.  _

_ Home has never been a stationary thing for me. Geography, landscape, and everything always shifted and changed. Home was with my brother.  _

_ I can talk about him now. _

_ It still hurts, and I’m still afraid to be alone, but it’s easier.  _

_ It’s easier to think of how much he would hate the stone walls of Skyhold. He would complain endlessly of the smells, and the sounds. But he would try his hardest to get people around him to laugh. He would try to make it seem like things weren’t as bad as they were.  _

_ He always had a stupid habit of shouldering all the blame, all the responsibilities, as if to protect me.  _

_ I wish he were still here. _

 

* * *

__

Dawn slipped over the tall walls, spilling onto the grey stone. There was something poetic about the place. Grass grew on piles of stone, pieces of flooring were missing. The place was in shambles, only an echo of its former glory. It was almost as if Skyhold were the Inquisition itself: something left abandoned and in pieces, with a chance to grow stronger yet again.

A sigh left Cyrlen. That didn’t mean he enjoyed the place. Stone walls and snow were  _ definitely  _ not on his list of “places to be”. At this point, he nearly missed the Hinterlands. 

Leaning against the railing of the ramparts, Cyrlen stared down the landscape. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Courage, maybe. His eyes dropped down to his feet and he fought a shiver. 

“He’s finally up on his feet and what’s the first thing he does? Stare off into space on his own.” Varric’s jovial voice humored behind Cylren. He shifted to give the dwarf an amused glance. “Tired of Sparkler yet?” Varric continued with a kind smile.

Surprise touched Cyrlen’s face. He turned fully to Varric and he raised a brow. “Is that a nickname for him? Dorian, that is.” 

A grin filled the dwarf’s lips and he moved to lean against the rail beside Cyrlen. “Well it’s certainly not  _ the  _ nickname, but it is  _ a  _ nickname.”

“Have you had a chance to call him that to his face yet?” Cyrlen asked, a mischievous smile curving his lips. “Sparkler is definitely fitting.” 

Varric laughed and shook his head. “Not yet, I think. He hasn’t exactly been the gregarious type lately.” 

Shaking his head, Cyrlen slumped against the rail and sighed. “Of course. He’s been tending to me.” 

“Even before that.” Varric scratched his chin. “After Haven…” The dwarf’s face fell and he gave Cyrlen a glance. “Well, as you can imagine Haven didn’t bid any of us well. It hit some of us harder than others. Your Sparkler kind of lost a lot of his…  _ flare. _ ” 

Cyrlen studied Varric, his cheeks warming. “He’s not mine,” he added, gently. “And that’s… surprising.” 

“Buttercup’s not all sunshine-and-happy either,” Varric sighed. “Honestly with all the shit I’ve seen, you’d think all of this gets better.” He looked up at Cyrlen. “Speaking of shit. I hate to ruin the moment, but…” His eyes trained towards the horizon. “I never got a clear view of what happened in Haven, or this… Elder One. But the way Sparkler described him, well… it tickled a memory.” 

“Ah.” Cyrlen’s gut twisted. He clutched tightly onto the railing. His chest constricted with a small whisper of fear. “It’s been a bit,” Cyrlen said quietly, staring ahead of him without seeing. The attack on Haven replayed in the back of his mind. “What would you like to know?” He felt Varric’s eyes on the side of his face. 

“This is a bit of a stretch, but with how things are playing out... well, I figured the shittiest of things kind of like to group together.” Varric crossed one leg over the other and leaned casually against the stone. “Does the name ‘Corypheus’ ring any bells?”

Cyrlen breathed in sharply. He stepped away from Varric and stared down at him. “Where did you get that name?”

“Well…” A lame laugh fell from the dwarf’s lips. “That’s a long story. And I’ve got a friend that can explain it better to you.” Humor washed away from Varric’s face. His shoulders slumped. “So, it was him.” 

Mouth drying, Cyrlen clutched tightly onto the amulet in his pocket. He shook his head and said, “I can’t imagine this makes anything better.”

“No.” Varric gave a look of defeat. “It really doesn’t.”

 

* * *

 

 

_ Shadows haunt us. There are worse things now. Sometimes we run into stragglers, creatures left aside from the fragments of Haven. Things with lyrium growing from their skin. We stare into the horizon, looking for whispers of red in the darkness. I thought of my brother. In moments like this, he would have found a way to distract everyone. _

_ Before I knew it, I was talking. Everyone was as surprised as I was. Harding gave me a small, encouraging smile. _

_ I told everyone one of my favorite tales that my brother would spin for me. I can still feel the delight in my chest, when my words let smiles fill their faces.  _

_ The end of the tale left a rock in my lung.  _

_ The hardest part about missing someone is that there’s no way to fix it.  _

_ You can ignore it, you can try to push it to the back of your mind, but it’s always there. There’s no way to fix it.  _

_ You are left to learn how to live with missing them.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you spot it? Something that _nearly_ slipped through the editing process:
> 
> Breathing in through his nose, he leaned away from the Herald and pushed both of his hands through his hair. Lavellan watched him with sharp eyes, peering underneath his skin. “The Commander’s been running every soldier into the ground—don’t get me started on Cassandra. That mercenary of yours won’t shut up about that archdemon. The Warden sulks in a barn. Solas is a poopy woopy poo head. And Sera...” He shook his head.


	9. Warm Touches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't you hate it when you finally get a good friend then suddenly your stomach starts doing weird flips around them? Calm down, stomach. Calm down. 
> 
> Now your heart's racing. 
> 
> Maker above, who is going to catch it-
> 
> No, no! Wrong person--no, put that down!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time around (sorry!)
> 
> To think, it's two months prior to a year before I started this. It astounds me how many people have come to scour through Cyrlen's story. Thank you so much for your support and your reads!
> 
> [Cat](http://psychoticcupcake.tumblr.com/)... Cat. Thank you. Really.

Cyrlen dreamed.

He lay on his back with shadows playing on the ceiling. The palm of his hand ached subtly, pain echoing up his arm. A green light hazed the room. Someone was beside him. They let out a quiet sigh. He swallowed, pushing down the anxious tickles around his stomach. His eyes flickered towards the back of Dorian’s head. The man lay turned away from him, arms grasped around a free pillow.

Breathing out through his nose, Cyrlen rolled onto his side and shifted as close to Dorian as he dared. His heart stammered hopelessly inside his chest. Every inch of him felt aware of the man in front of him. He reached out for Dorian, and green light splayed against the blankets and the back of Dorian’s tunic.

His fingers itched to trace Dorian’s back, to learn the curves of his muscle and the degree of his warmth. A bubble filled his throat, clogging his airways. Cyrlen dropped his hand to the bed and squeezed his eyes shut in shame. He wouldn’t breach Dorian’s boundaries for his own selfish desire.

Then Dorian moved. He rolled onto his back and startled Cyrlen. His arm landed right on Cyrlen’s head, and he practically squished him into the mattress. Letting out a confused grunt, Dorian shifted and rolled to face Cyrlen. His arm draped over him, and then wrapped around him in place of the pillow. Breath tickled the top of Cyrlen’s head, shifting through his hair.

Heat rushed to Cyrlen’s cheeks. His heart drummed relentlessly against his throat. He licked his lips and peered curiously up at Dorian. The collar of his tunic spread open, exposing stray black hairs that curled along his chest. Cyrlen’s fingers twitched. He ran his thumb against his fingers and wondered the feel of it.

Dorian stirred. His hand tested Cyrlen’s back, and traced down his skin. Fingers followed the bumps of his spine, and paused at his tailbone. Cyrlen lost his breath.

“Wha…?” Dorian’s face squished in tired confusion. He tensed seconds later.

Heart beating in his throat, Cyrlen forced his eyes closed. He breathed in through his nose, and out through his mouth. The room filled with the sound of his pounding heartbeat and he couldn’t decide if pretending to sleep was better than holding up his hands and saying, _“Whoops!”_

Dorian’s hands began to slide away, and disappointment followed them. “And here _I_ warned that I took up the bed,” Dorian muttered under his breath as he relaxed into the mattress. His hand drifted along Cyrlen’s bare shoulder and gently reached his cheek. He hesitantly traced the delicate vallaslin under his eye.

Butterflies squeezed Cyrlen’s lungs and he fought to keep his face lax. Dorian’s fingers traced towards his hair and paused. Fingers hesitantly pressed the outer shell of Cyrlen’s ear. His ear flicked in response and Dorian’s hand snapped away. He held his breath, waiting. Perhaps to see if Cyrlen woke.

The rest of the dream faded to fuzzy darkness, pulling Cyrlen into a deeper sleep. His heart ached.

He hadn’t realized how much he had wished it to be true.

 

* * *

 

“Well…?” Josephine asked. Her voice held in tight anticipation, and she danced on her toes with excitement glittering in her eyes. A large room enveloped them. The ceiling reached up two stories, and stained glass windows allowed light to rush into the room. A desk sat in the far corner, facing a rather large bed and other customary things that Cyrlen was certain other people were used to.

His brows pinched together and he glanced towards the large, empty bed in the middle of the vast room. “This… is certainly…” Cyrlen fought for the right words. His eyes landed on Josephine who watched him with a wide, happy smile. “Spacious.” Cyrlen offered, feeling lame.

He wished he could like it.

“Oh, isn’t it great? There’s a couch, plenty of room for you to be on your own, and the best part!” Josephine rushed towards the two glass doors and shoved them open. Light flooded the room. Cyrlen limped towards the doors and stepped out onto the balcony.

The world stretched before him. Snowy mountains filled the horizon, and clouds darted the morning sky. Cyrlen lost a breath and leaned against the railing. His eyes flickered over towards Josephine, with a smile twitching the corner of his lips.

Josephine watched him with a whisper of a sad gaze. “It’s not the Free Marches, or… a forest.” She stepped up beside him and leaned against the railing. “But I figure with all the places in Skyhold, this would offer you the best view.”

“It seems… _excessive_ ,” Cyrlen said hesitantly. “Don’t get me wrong, the view is… it’s great! And the room…” His voice fell and he turned to look towards the lonely bed. “It seems so much for one person, Josephine. I’d be more than happy with-”

“Oh I know,” Josephine gave into a sigh. “You’d be more than happy out in a tent by the fire! But Cyrlen, do know, you’re going to have a lot of visitors up here. If not Leliana, Cullen, or me, it will be Sera, Cassandra, or…” She smiled to herself. “Master Pavus.”

Heat tickled Cyrlen’s cheeks. “There are other places to meet.”

“This makes you accessible!” Josephine turned towards Skyhold and waved her hand towards the people milling about the courtyard. “Look! They can look up here and know their Herald is right here, looking out for them.”

Cyrlen breathed in and felt his chest pinch tightly. His eyes flickered down towards the people scurrying back and forth, each with something to do and smaller rooms to return to. “We could make this a medical hall.”

“Up all those stairs?” Josephine challenged.

A long breath left him and he shook his head. He glanced up at Josephine with a quiet smile. “If this is the Inquisition’s way of apologizing, Josie, I don’t need it. I’m fine.”

The ambassador stepped forward and grasped Cyrlen’s hands in her own. Her brows pinched together, and she searched Cyrlen’s expression. “Cyrlen.”

“Josephine,” Cyrlen said, raising a brow.

“Take the room.” Josephine said. “Decorate it how you please, ask for _anything._ Make it your own. This is the least we could do for you, after everything.”

Cyrlen breathed in through his nose and cast another glance towards the room. His chest felt sticky with uncertainties. He wondered how the Anchor’s light would shine through the windows at night, like a beacon for all to see. But he found himself nodding. “At this point I doubt I would have been-”

An excited breath left Josephine and she stepped forward as if to hug him, and instead folded her arms behind her. “Perfect! If you need anything at all, just let me or anyone else know.”

“Blankets,” Cyrlen said, immediately. “I would like some more blankets.” He hesitated. “That is, of course, if we’ve a surplus of blankets.

Josephine laughed. “I’ll get on it, Master Lavellan. Right away.” She dipped her head and stepped back into the room. “I should get back to work.”

“Alright.” Cyrlen leaned against the doorway and watched her scurry towards the stairs.

“Oh, Cyrlen. There are some things for you to look at on the desk. To get you caught up with things.” Josephine paused and turned towards him. “If you ever need anything, you know where my desk is.”

“Thank you,” Cyrlen said, more earnestly. He stepped away from the threshold. “Last of all, Josie? I _am_ a hugger, despite my outward appearance. Feel free to hug me any time.”

Surprise littered onto Josephine’s face and she gave him an embarrassed smile. “Of course, Master Lavellan.” Smiling, he crossed towards her and she threw her arms around him while shaking her head. “I’m so very glad you’re alive, Cyrlen,” Josephine whispered.

Her perfume overwhelmed him and watered his eyes. But it was welcomed. “I didn’t expect any less. Who else would you have to listen to you? Besides Sister Nightingale, we all know she’s too busy listening to the crows.”

Josephine let out another chiming laugh and pulled away to give him a bright smile. “And who else to tell me such fantastic tales!” She placed a hand on his arm and peered into his eyes. “I wish you a great day, Cyrlen.”

“And you as well,” Cyrlen said. He waited for her to disappear through the door before he allowed weariness to settle on his shoulders. A long sigh left him and he turned to stare at the large, empty room before him.

Well, if anything, at least he has a view of the stars.

 

* * *

 

_We’re making our way west, again. The scouts talk about the Inquisition and how it might progress. How will we move forward? Will the Advisors continue to work together? Will we need a leader? The group argues over who would end up at the head of it all, if anyone. They all have their points. The leader would be those in the circle. Either the Commander or the Seeker. Someone suggested the Herald and everyone grew quiet._

_An elf--a mage--Inquisitor?_

_Or perhaps it was something else._

_Maybe we all thought the same: what it might feel like, to walk away from death twice and to hold the key to everyone’s salvation in your hands. You only have two choices at that point, to become the puppet of another, or to lead everyone yourself._

_There are very few people who would want to have that sort of power._

_And most of those people are the type you don’t want to have that sort of power._

_Like the Elder One, Corypheus._

 

* * *

 

Mutters filled the grand hall. Uncertainty filled the eyes of some, while anger heated others. _Corypheus._ The name replayed itself constantly in Dorian’s head. His eyes casually glanced over the hall. In front of the hearth, Lavellan stood with his hands behind his back. The tunic on his shoulders made him look stronger than Dorian remembered. Like he had healed instantly of all his injuries and all was right and proper.

Though the tunic didn’t seem to fit the Herald. He looked out of context--especially with the trousers. Extra fabric gathered and spilled over the Herald’s boots.

Dorian slowed his walk and turned to pretend to be occupied by the scaffolding and the workers ambling around it. He kept a close eye on Lavellan out of the corner of his eye. The Herald looked to be spacing out, his face lax with the warmth of the fire reflecting in his face. Dorian would almost believe it, if it weren’t for the Herald’s ears.

His ears twitched towards the conversations. Dorian smiled to himself. The ears were a tell. If not anything else, the ears told the truth. Dorian parted from his spot and started towards the door to the tower. His heart filled like a balloon with anticipation. _Oh come now. You’ve been with the Herald so often lately, you can’t be thrilled at something so mundane,_ he scorned himself inwardly.

As he stepped towards the door, his mouth curved with a smirk.

“You know, you got yourself some paid ears. You don’t need to do it yourself.” Varric’s thick voice cut in before Dorian could utter a word.

Withholding his tongue, Dorian wrapped his hand around the doorknob and pushed the door open. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Lavellan turn. “Is it that obvious?” He said, startled.

“It was a rough guess.” Varric shrugged with a grin. His voice dropped. “You’re wondering how people are taking it.”  
Dorian closed the door behind him, unnoticed. He let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. _Why are you disappointed?_ His skin heated. He felt ridiculous for his fluctuating emotions--especially over a single man. Ignoring Solas, he started straight towards the stairs.

Perhaps he could do something useful, and not gawk over the Herald.

 

* * *

 

Hardly five minutes into it and the edges of his vision felt hazy. Cyrlen focused on his breathing, moving carefully with the staff. His ribs ached, and his muscles strained under every small movement. Even the simple wood felt too much in his palms. He pulled the staff over his head and whipped it around in a slow circle. His muscles remembered the movements, but exhaustion hung off of his limbs like tar. He stumbled.

“I thought you had a few more days of recovery,” Blackwall said, leaning against a well. “Ribs still bothering you, I see.”

Cyrlen fought a smile and gave the Warden a glance. “Could you stand being trapped in bed for all that while?”

“I guess it would all depend what he was in bed _for,_ ” a familiar voice trickled in from the backdoor to the kitchen. Cyrlen turned and saw Dorian sauntering down the stairs. His mustache twitched with a smile. “And there he is! Hiding away from the healers so he might go against their wishes.” He held something casually in hand.

An embarrassed smile pulled the edges of Cyrlen’s lips and he gave a half shrug. “I would truly rather they not worry so much.”

Blackwall snorted. “Says the man who raised himself from the dead. Doubt anyone’s going to be likely to not _worry._ ”

“I never died,” Cyrlen said. He leaned against the plain staff and raised a brow as Dorian walked over to him. “Good afternoon, Dorian.” A blush prickled his skin as the memory of the dream gladly replayed itself.

A smile warmed Dorian’s face and his eyes traced Cyrlen from head to toe. “You’re looking better,” he said, appreciatively. “See you’ve found proper trousers.”

Cyrlen’s heart jumped in his chest and he smiled. “I missed them.”

“Here,” Dorian said as he held up his hand. A buttery pastry sat on a napkin in his palm. “The cook practically shoved it into my hands.”

Surprise trickled through Cyrlen. “You sure you don’t want it?” He traded the staff for the pastry. It was hot from the oven. Hunger stroked his stomach. “Thank you,” Cyrlen said a bit sheepishly.

“Oh, I slaved over it for hours,” Dorian purred. “I’m sure you’ll find _some_ way to repay me.” He smirked.

Heat filled Cyrlen’s cheeks. Lifting the pastry to his mouth, he took a careful bite and nearly melted. His eyes flickered over towards Blackwall, and he realized the man was frowning at the two of them. He swallowed and straightened.

“You two have gotten close.” Blackwall said, and he raised a brow at Cyrlen. Then his eyes switched focus onto something behind him.

“Lavellan.” Cullen’s voice came out tight and awkward.

Cyrlen turned on his heel and gave the Commander a curious glance. “Good day, Commander.” He took another quick bite.

“We’re about to start a meeting, if, uh,” Cullen said. His eyes darted aside and a blush colored his cheeks.

It had been a while since Cyrlen had fancied Cullen. Whatever admiration or crush Cyrlen had on the Commander had left at some point. He couldn’t pinpoint when. “Thank you,” Cyrlen said softly. He smiled. “Shall we?”

Relief filled Cullen’s face and he nodded. “Right. This way.” He started back towards the main courtyard. Cyrlen thought of suggesting the shortcut through the kitchens, and quickly decided he rather not see the Commander’s wide shoulders amble through the busy, cramped spaces. “You’re feeling better?”

Cyrlen gave the Commander a glance. “Better than I was yesterday. How are things coming along with Skyhold?”

The Commander perked up. Fortifications and troop numbers spilled out of Cullen’s mouth in uniform order. He spoke professionally and confidently. Cyrlen smiled faintly to himself.

People gave them side glances as they headed up the stairs to the courtyard his excessive room overlooked. Cullen paused and gently said, “We suffered losses in Haven, and after.” His face grew grave. “We’ve lost a lot of what you’ve worked hard for.”

“We’ve,” Cyrlen corrected. “All of us.”

“But you’re the one who has made the decisions, who has moved us forward, and given us a foothold in Thedas.” Cullen watched him carefully. “You closed the breach.”

“With help,” Cyrlen reminded. His hand started to ache. _Don’t pin this on me._ “Cullen, I’ve traipsed through the Hinterlands with a group of others aiding me. I might have made the quick decisions, but it was teamwork-”

“Lavellan,” Cullen started, then he stumbled, “H-Herald.”

“Cyrlen is fine,” he reminded gently.

Swallowing, Cullen nodded. “Cyrlen. There’s always a leader in a group of builders--one who calls the shots. Without him-”

“Them,” Cyrlen said.

“Without _someone_ there to lead them, then they’ll make a-”

“Fine building with correct communication and teamwork,” Cyrlen came to a stop. “Cullen. This thing in-” He paused and closed his mouth. Several eyes were on them. Taking in a deep breath, Cyrlen inclined his head towards the Commander and quietly said, “Cullen, why do you think a Keeper would send their first away to spy on a potentially dangerous situation?”

The Commander blinked.

“Come on. The others are waiting.” Cyrlen reached the top of the stairs and ignored the eyes that watched the limp in his gait. His heart sank. He felt like the Advisors were trying to soften the blow for something. His eyes glanced up towards the stained glass windows of his room.

 

* * *

 

People began to fill the halls of Skyhold. Refugees, settlers, people of all races and backgrounds. The back of Dorian’s skull pulsed idly with irritation as he scoured through yet another scarce and poorly written “history” book of Tevinter. A Ferelden's _dog_ could write a better history than this. He sighed heavily and pulled one leg over the other, leaning back on his chair. He massaged his temples.

The Herald’s face whispered in the back of his mind. When he had bitten into the pastry, his face had lit up with bliss. It had caught Dorian off guard to see such a look on the Herlald’s face. His heart pounded at the memory of it.

Dorian smoothed his mustache. He stared up the tower and tried to push his thoughts away from Lavellan. _Corypheus._ His mind flashed back to the attack on Haven. It replayed hazily in his mind, with a mixture of his dreams and fading memory. There was a single image that always replayed so clearly: Lavellan dangling limply in the Elder One’s hand before being casually tossed aside like a worn out rag.

It took a few moments for Dorian to realize that the tower had silenced. Nothing but the crows murmured above him. He set the book aside and stood. His footsteps echoed. Leaning over the balcony, he glanced down and didn’t see a familiar shine of a head. Dorian huffed. He started down the stairs.

He suddenly felt as if he fell asleep and woke up in a bad dream. Soon red lyrium would be growing out of the walls and he’d run across the Herald, eyes glowing red in the low light. He held back a shiver from the thought of it. Calling magic forth, he whisked a hand through the air and shoved the door to the ramparts open. He heard distant voices.

A whisper of fear tickled his insides. It couldn’t be another attack, could it? Dorian spotted a few soldiers leaning over the edge of the railing. Sighing under his breath, he followed suit. A large crowd gathered in the courtyard, muttering in excitement. Collectively, they hushed.

_It would almost seem that I’ve come across another cult._ Dorian spotted what caught their attention.

The Herald stood beside Cassandra and Leliana, overlooking the courtyard. His face looked impassive as ever. Though Dorian couldn’t tell much from this distance. The Lady Seeker offered Lavellan a sword, and he took it in hand. His lips moved and while Dorian couldn’t hear his words, he could hear the power behind his voice.

He lifted the sword in the air and people rallied.

Cassandra called over the masses, and the Commander turned towards them, his voice shouting over the yard. People hung off of every one of the Commander’s words, throwing their fists in the air and chanting. Excitement sponged through the crowd and sifted into the air, drugging it.

“To the Inquisitor!” The soldiers shouted, throwing fists into the air.

The chanting clicked and Dorian felt his stomach drop.

“Inquisitor! Inquisitor! Inquisitor!”

His eyes snapped towards Lavellan but he couldn’t see anything past a raised sword. Blades slid down into his lungs. Fingers curling, Dorian tore away from the railing and started back towards the tower. The door flew open with more force than he had meant. His jaw clenched. _Buffoons. I wonder if they had the mind to ask him._

Sense whispered in his ear but his anger pushed it away. A strange sense of injustice rifted through him. He started straight towards the main hall, and when he pushed open the door he realized why he was angry. He was being protective of Lavellan.

Just then the Herald--the _Inquisitor--_ strode into the hall with his advisors straight on his heels.

As Dorian expected, he was furious. The light of his eyes burned like mage fire. Lavellan came to a stop midway down the hall and turned. The others were gravely silent. They had known the ramifications for this. Breathing in through his nose, Lavellan stared past them. “You set me up,” he said simply.

The Anchor sparked and fired restlessly. Lavellan curled his hand into a fist, as if fighting to contain it.

“We know nothing of Corypheus except that he wants the Anchor,” Sister Nightingale said, her voice sharp and unyielding. “Your death frightened the people, and the defeat of Haven-”

“We lost a lot of support,” Josephine said quickly. “With this we-”

“I know,” Lavellan said quietly. His voice dropped and chilled the room.

Dorian paused, surprised to _feel_ a chill rising into the air. His eyes narrowed and he recognized a pull of magic.

The Commander had, too. He stood with a hand on the hilt of his sword.

An exasperated breath left Lavellan and he turned away from them. His mask broke and he stared hopelessly at the end of the hall. Light caught in Lavellan’s eyes. He covered his face with his hands and shrank. A deep breath lifted his shoulders as he straightened. When he spoke, his voice shook. “I understand the implications. I understand it all. But you all played underhand. You went behind my back. I can’t even begin on how _disappointed_ -” Lavellan caught his breath and he closed his eyes. “I can’t… I can’t speak to any of you right now. Excuse me.” The Herald whipped around and started straight towards Dorian.

Dorian only had a few startled seconds to stumble backwards and out of his way.

“Cy-” Josephine stammered, “H-Herald!” She called out.

Dorian stepped back and let the door close. Carefully, he turned.

In the middle of the circular room, Lavellan stood, deflated. His eyes stared down into the floor, as if weighed down. “I’m not one for company right now, Dorian. Please excuse me.” Defeat lined his voice.

Barbed wire wrapped around Dorian’s heart. “Lavellan,” he said carefully. “If I may, I believe what truly matters in this moment is if you _want_ company.”

The Herald’s eyes widened slightly, and then snapped to Dorian. After a few seconds of silence, he finally said, “Would you care to show me somewhere… isolated? You’ve been here longer than I, I suppose you’d…”

A smile curved Dorian’s lips. “I know just the place.” He held out an arm for Lavellan and to his guilty delight, the Herald took it.

 

* * *

 

The Herald shivered again with his arms encircled around himself. Head ducked down, he wordlessly searched the snowy horizon and held his amulet in hand. The Anchor sparked occasionally, spurting quietly.

Dorian almost hated the silence. But there was something comforting in it. His thigh pressed against Lavellan’s, and occasionally their arms would brush. It felt childishly simple, but it warmed Dorian’s chest nonetheless. Again, the Anchor came to life and Lavellan clenched his hand. He breathed out deeply through his nose closed his eyes. Dorian pressed his brows together in thought. “If I may?”

Lavellan glanced curiously at Dorian. His eyes fell to Dorian’s outstretched hand. Hesitantly, he laid his hand in Dorian’s own.

_His fingers are cold,_ Dorian thought idly as pulled the hand further into his lap. He turned it over to study Lavellan’s palm. The Anchor made a strangely beautiful mess of the Herald’s hand. Its taint ripped across his palm and stained the veins down his wrist. Had it looked that way before? Dorian stopped himself from tracing the inside of Lavellan’s wrist and instead said, “What do you suppose Corypheus had done to it?”

“He was trying to remove it from my hand, as you know, and…” Lavellan leaned closer to Dorian to peer down at the Anchor. “I’m not quite sure, honestly. And I still don’t have an idea on how it works. I think it’s having fits right now because I’m angry.”

“You’re very silent for angry,” Dorian said, his lips curling. He studied Lavellan’s face, to search for the anger within it so he might recognize it in the future.

A quiet smile filled Lavellan’s lips and he looked up at Dorian. “Despite what you saw of me after Redcliffe, I usually try to reign in my anger.” He sighed. “I… never had the comfort of being able to scream on the floor like a child.”

“Ah, that’s too bad. It’s usually quite fun. Especially in markets. Never fails to get me what I want.” Dorian smirked.

The quiet smile grew. Amused, Lavellan said, “I suppose I should be careful bringing you to any market then.” His hand clasped around Dorian’s, and made his heart jump.

Chuckling, Dorian ran his thumb along Lavellan’s skin. “Trust me,” he purred. “Should there be anything I want so badly, it wouldn’t be in the market.” He raised his brows pointedly.

Lavellan tore his gaze away from Dorian. His skin colored with a blush. Shyness took over his smile. “Of course, you’ve higher tastes than that. No more markets for you, especially nowhere near Ferelden.”

Dorian’s voice dropped as he spoke into Lavellan’s ear, “I’ve learned that some high quality items can come from the most surprising places.” 

Laughter bubbled from Lavellan, and his face squished in slight pain. He took in a short breath and closed his eyes, fighting back the laughter. “Stop it,” he murmured as he leaned into Dorian. His head rested on Dorian’s shoulder. “Stop teasing me.”

Dorian’s heart forgot its tempo. He laughed airily and said, “I hate to tell you but teasing you is in the contract.”

“The contract? The friend contract?” Lavellan glanced up at him. His face warmed with humor. “Ah, well. Nothing I can do. And nothing you can do, either. Your shoulder is now mine.”

“Kaffas!” Dorian said, mocking shock. “You must have hidden that in the fine print.”

A wide smile filled Lavellan’s face. He turned his head into Dorian’s shoulder and muttered, “Thank you…”

Dorian gave Lavellan’s hand a quick squeeze. _It goes two ways, Lavellan._ He breathed out through his nose. The two fell to silence once more. Peace cooled the thoughts in Dorian’s head, turning his conscious into a clean slate. Then an idea sprung in his mind. He turned over their hands to peer curiously at Lavellan’s mark again. He tried to search for the mark’s energy read, and tried to understand it.

It was as mysterious and foreign as the rifts. Though Dorian was determined. If a bald apostate could figure it out, why couldn’t he?

 

* * *

_  
I’m at a complete loss for words._

_A Dalish elf is the Inquisitor--the leader to an ever growing mass of power. Some of the scouts heard of people crawling over Thedas to come join the Inquisition. To join the Herald of Andraste, who has risen from death itself._

_I’m not sure if I believe that much._

_Things are going to start changing. I’m not sure how. But they’re going to change._

_The Inquisitor. He gives me hope._

_I grew up afraid of my magic, afraid that I had it. I was always afraid. My brother taught me differently, taught me to trust myself and to trust in my magic. He protected me._

_I can only hope the Inquisitor can do the same for mages elsewhere. Mages who fear themselves because of what they’ve been told, and maybe even help the world see that magic isn’t inherently evil like most seem to believe._


	10. Echoing Traces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rain, right? You either hate it, or you kinda make love in it.
> 
> Wait
> 
> What? 
> 
> I mean you kinda find your brother in it--
> 
> Hold on. _What_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah--woah, wait. Hold on. _Two_... t-two chapters in one month? Is... is the earth shaking? Is... is the world falling apart!? 
> 
> No--no, it's just thunder from Crestwood, don't worry about it.
> 
> Also, longer chapter. (YAY!!)
> 
> Lastly, [Carrie](http://faslaidir.tumblr.com/), my dear, my darling, you wonderful gift of a human being, _Thank You_. You guys honestly should [check](http://faslaidir.tumblr.com/) [her](http://faslaidir.tumblr.com/) [out](http://faslaidir.tumblr.com/)!

Cold wind chased him through the doorway. He pushed the door closed with his foot and flopped back against it. His eyes shut.  _ Inquisitor. Inquisitor.  _ He had been hearing it all day.  _ Well, you’ll certainly hear it more. Might as well get used to it.  _ Cyrlen cracked his eyes open. The thought sounded oddly like Dorian. His skin began to prickle with a blush. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he encouraged the warmth with a small spell. Fuzzy heat fell over him and chased away the lingering pinches of cold. He stepped further into the tower.

The sound of crows rained down on him. He peered up curiously towards the cages and spotted a few fluttering around. 

“Lethallin.” Solas held a question in his voice.

Cyrlen glanced towards him and inclined his head as a greeting. “Hello, Solas.” He paused and a quiet smile pulled his lips. “Lethallin?” 

Solas’ eyes crinkled with a smile and he nodded. “Would you rather ‘Inquisitor’?” Something of Cyrlen’s expression made Solas laugh. He set aside his brush and straightened. “I’m glad you’re here. There’s something I wish to discuss with you, if I may.” 

“Go right ahead,” Cyrlen nodded.

Solas paused. His eyes flickered upwards. 

Curiosity folded Cyrlen’s brows. “I’ll be in my room later this evening. I have more papers to go over.”

A smile filled Solas’ lips. “Alright. Until then.” 

Cyrlen bid him a quiet goodbye and started for the stairs. He sighed inwardly. His body ached. Every day it ached a little less, and sooner or later he would have to escape the walls of Skyhold. But for now, he was trapped making rounds, shaking hands, and assuring people he was real.  _ Inquisitor. _

The crows spoke to another. Their calls echoed around the walls and hid any conversations happening in the top-most level. Breathless, Cyrlen came to a stop and leaned against the wall.

“Preparing yourself for me, are we?” Dorian said, humored.

Cyrlen snapped his gaze towards the top of the steps. He smiled easily and didn’t care to right himself. “I need a cane. Or perhaps a new staff. My last one broke, I think. Anyways…” He started up the stairs and Dorian held out a hand for him to grab. “I’ve been running around all day. It’s catching up to me.” Cyrlen grasped his hand and allowed Dorian to pull him up the rest of the stairs. 

They walked into Dorian’s small nook. Cyrlen nearly felt shy entering it. The space held the essence of Dorian, from the books down to the rug on the floor. Dorian stopped by the chair and motioned for him to sit. Gratefully, he did.

“You’ll have the healers scrambling around Skyhold,” Dorian said with a smile. 

“That’s my secret.” Cyrlen relaxed into the chair and closed his eyes. “I’m running from  _ them. _ ” 

A deep chuckle rumbled from Dorian and warmed Cyrlen’s stomach.

With a small smile, Cyrlen said, “I met with Varric’s informant a few moments ago.”

“Oh? And?” 

“It was quite the meeting. He’s… quite the character. He had a cousin there with him. I’m still not quite sure what to make of it, in all honesty. Varric kept looking behind his shoulder. I’m worried what Cassandra will do.” Cyrlen let out a short breath and looked down at his hand. “We’re to meet him and another contact in some place that’ll probably be running thick with people who want to kill us.” 

Another laugh fell from Dorian, though it was distracted. “What’s a little venture without some prick with a sword?” 

Cyrlen cast a glance towards Dorian. He held a parchment in hand, staring forlornly at it. “What do we have here?” Cyrlen gingerly sat up. He pulled one leg over the other. A book stuck in the cushion of chair poked his leg. Smiling, he freed it and examined the cover. It was a nameless book with thick leather binding it. Dorian must have been reading it.

“Oh.” Dorian stopped near the window. “It’s a letter regarding Felix.” 

As he cracked open the book, he came to a stop. “Felix?” 

“Alexius’s son,” Dorian clarified.

“I know that.” Cyrlen breathed out through his nose and pushed himself up. He stepped to the window and leaned against the wall, studying Dorian. “If it’s personal-”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you of it anyhow.” Dorian shot him a charming smile. It didn’t seem to reach his eyes. “I’m informed he went to the Magisterium.” His eyes fell to the window, past Cyrlen. “Stood on the senate floor and told them of you. A glowing testimonial, as it says.” 

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Cyrlen crossed his arms. “But it’s a letter  _ of  _ Felix.”

“Yes.” Dorian sighed. “There’s been no news of the reaction, but back home everyone is talking.” His voice dropped. “Felix always was as good as his word.” 

A small breath fled from Cyrlen and he nodded. He turned to look out the window. Sadness clogged his lungs and weighed his heart. 

“Seems the blight caught up with him,” Dorian said. 

Wordlessly, Cyrlen turned to Dorian. His shoulders were thrown back and his eyes rested on Cyrlen. With a carefull breath, Cyrlen stepped closer to Dorian. He rested a hand on his shoulder and searched his eyes. “Are you alright?” Cyrlen asked, his voice dropping. It barely carried over the crows.

Dorian leaned closer, as if to hear his words more clearly. “He was ill,” he said, dismissively. “And thus on borrowed time anyhow.”

Brows pinching together, Cyrlen said, “That doesn’t mean you can’t regret his death.”

“I know.” Dorian turned out of Cyrlen’s grip and stepped towards a bookshelf. He distractedly ran his fingers over the spine of a book. 

Cyrlen leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. A scout rushed past the alcove with a paper clasped tightly in their hand. They whipped around the small library and dove up the stairs. Cyrlen almost wished they were somewhere quieter. With just the two of them. A heavy conversation shouldn’t be spoken so casually—but that was Dorian’s trick. To treat it casually. To act as if all was dandy. He studied the curve of Dorian’s spine, and the movement of his hips as he shifted his weight. “My brother…” Cyrlen started, his voice dying. 

Hands stilling, Dorian looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

“He used to love wearing kohl. Though he could never put it on himself when he was younger so I always helped. I used to tease him he put it on too thickly.” Cyrlen smiled at the memory. It was bittersweet, like dull claws carving into his lungs while warming heart.

Dorian turned towards him. He stared at a fixed spot at the floor. “Felix used to sneak me treats from the kitchens when I was working late in his father’s study. ‘Don’t get into trouble on my behalf,’ I’d tell him. ‘I like trouble,’ he’d say.” He breathed out through his nose. “Tevinter could use more mages like him. Those who put the good of others above themselves.” He turned towards Cyrlen and offered him a half smile.

“Then follow in his steps.” Cyrlen offered. He walked up to Dorian and gently placed a hand on his arm. “Though I would have to say you’re not too far from it, Dorian.” 

A laugh rumbled from Dorian. He raised his brows. “Charming me again, are we dear Herald? And yet I don’t seem to have my staff on me.” His lips curled mischievously. “ _ Well- _ ”

A small noise slipped from Cyrlen’s throat and he gently shoved Dorian’s shoulder. “Stop it!” He let out a wheezy laugh, his smile widening into a grin. “You can try and distract me all you like. But…” He squeezed Dorian’s arm. “If you happen to need my company, feel free any time.”

“Thank you, Herald.” Dorian’s eyes softened. “Or should I start addressing you as-”

“If you do, I’ll start screaming,” Cyrlen challenged. 

Dorian laughed. “Oh! I’d love to see that! Would you perhaps strip yourself naked too? Go flailing through Skyhold?”

A blush scorched Cyrlen’s cheeks and he breathed out a laugh. “Creators— _ Dorian.  _ No.” He shook his head and playfully rolled his eyes. “You can call me by my first name, you know that, right?” Cyrlen raised a brow. 

Dorian’s expression became fixed. “Oh. Well.” He blinked. “Yes. Of course.”

Smiling, Cyrlen leaned back to peer curiously at him. “Alright.”

“Dandy.” Dorian nodded.

Cyrlen poked his chest. “I should get going. Before those healers catch up to me.” 

Chuckling, Dorian waved him off. “If you must.” 

Cyrlen reluctantly pulled away. He started back towards the stairs. 

“At least I’ll get to enjoy watching you leave.” 

He tripped.

 

* * *

 

 

A breeze brushed against his cheek and freed his hair from its tight braid. Cyrlen turned his gaze towards the sky. Foliage splattered over the clear blue expanse, and the sun peeked in between the leaves. Cyrlen breathed in deeply through his nose and closed his eyes.  _ Home.  _ He pressed a hand against the bark of a tree. 

His hand looked smaller and normal — there was no trace of the Anchor. Cyrlen turned his hands over and peered down at his palms. Calluses formed along his dry fingers. 

“Astounding.”

Cyrlen glanced up and spotted Solas standing a few feet from him, observing the world in awe. “Your connection to the fade,” Solas explained. “Everything here… it’s so defined.” His brows pinched together. “You look different.” 

Lips pressing into a thin line, Cyrlen wiped his hands over his tunic. Grass peeked between his toes and cast little shadows over his freckled feet. “I’m younger.” Cyrlen stated the obvious; his voice sounded younger and softer. And colder. His braid fell over his shoulder and stopped short of his belt. “I think you’ve interrupted a dream.”

“Is this somewhere your clan traveled?” Solas looked around them, his eyes falling over the dense foliage.

“Somewhere like this. Maeron was born here. And I met someone important near here, too.” Cyrlen turned towards Solas. “When you said you wished to speak privately…”

“You don’t seem surprised,” Solas said. His face lit up with a smile. 

“I’m shocked.” Cyrlen admitted. “But it’s the only explanation. Dreams with any of you in it are hardly so peaceful.” He clenched his left hand into a fist. “And you mentioned exploring in the fade.”

Solas nodded, smiling like a proud teacher. “Right. Care to go for a walk?” He waved a hand down an indiscernible path.

The forest was almost a mirror of the one he knew. It had been too long since he’s walked in it. Grass turned to dirt underneath Cyrlen’s feet. The trees whispered softly to another in the breeze. They tempted him to lay on his back underneath a stream of sunlight and listen to their story. 

“You’ve gained immense support,” Solas said finally. “They would follow you anywhere, as an elf and a mage. It’s impressive.”

Cyrlen glanced towards him with a half-smile. “It wasn’t all me.” 

“Nevertheless,” Solas said dismissively, “it isn’t infallible I’m afraid. The orb that Corypheus carried, the one he used. It comes from our people.” 

A thin needle pierced into Cyrlen’s lungs, and air began to leak out of his chest. He came to a slow stop. “How would he get his hands on such a thing?” His brows came together. “How do you know this?” 

Solas paused and gave him a glance. “They were foci, used to channel ancient magics. I’ve seen such things in the fade. Old memories of older magic. Corypheus might think it Tevinter-”

“It doesn’t entirely matter what he thinks of it, but what others know.” Cyrlen sighed heavily, his brows pulling together. “People can make an enemy of anything.” He reached up to trace the scar on his cheek. Except it wasn’t there. The younger him hadn’t had that pain yet. His eyes flickered up to Solas. “Some people will blame elves. What do you propose we do?”

 

* * *

 

_ Since we received word to make our way to Crestwood, I’ve felt a certain dread in my chest. I’m not sure why. I don’t even want to say it’s “dread”. It feels more like… anticipation. Like something big is going to happen. We have made our way quite swiftly back towards Ferelden. I was one of the few chosen to scout ahead alone. A single person is always faster than a company, small or not.  _

_ I don’t want to admit it, but a small part of me is fearful. I want to be proud that I’ve proven myself good enough to be on my own, but I fear that they are wrong. _

_ That I will meet the end of a sword, or run across a terrible rift.  _

_ Harding says I’m a good scout. I notice small things that others sometimes pass by, like plant that has grown wrong. It usually means there’s a rift nearby.  _

_ I think it’s because I grew up among the Dalish. I know the plants around me, and know how nature behaves. The open sky is like home to me, while the other scouts wish for a comfy bed and a sturdy roof. _

_ Tonight, it’s quiet. I can still see the group’s fire in the far distance. At least, I think it’s them. The quiet murmurs of the night make my chest feel too tight.  _

_ I set up wards, but I don’t think I’ll sleep well. _

_ Humming my brother’s songs helps a little. _

 

* * *

 

Cyrlen sighed at the door. An arrow pinned a list of “rubbish and thingies” against the wall. He glanced down Sera’s handwriting. The list was perfectly her, with doodles curving around the edges. Some bees, and hearts. And something that looked vaguely like reproductive organs. He drummed his knuckles against the door, again. “Sera,” he muttered against the wood. “I need my favorite little arrow.” 

“Sera’s not here!” A voice finally answered, deep and gruff, yet still very  _ Sera. _

A smile curved Cyrlen’s lips and he pressed his head against the wood. “Oh? Then can you tell me where the da’assan went to?”

“Bleh!” Sera yelled. “You and your elfie shite go away!” She paused and deepened her voice, “I mean, er, none of that rubbish!” 

Cyrlen halfheartedly sighed. “Sera. Please? I’ll beg.”

The door let out a long, dramatic groan. After a few seconds, the lock on the door clicked. Cyrlen gently opened it and peered inside. A small room unfolded before him with light brilliantly pushing into all cracks and crevices. Bright shades of mix matched fabrics splattered the room, breathing life into it. Some of Sera’s clothes squished in a pile on the far end of the room. A bench sat along the large windows with an old plate of food sitting in the sunlight. One of the windows were open, and the room was empty.

Cyrlen shook his head and slipped out of an open window, out onto the roof. 

Alone, Sera sat with her arms around her legs. Her eyes stared at a fixed point on the ground. Cyrlen sat next to her, wordlessly. She sniffed. “Inquisitor. It’s Inquisitor now, right? After all that shite, an’ your shinin’ sword and all that rubbish. It’s all good, innit? You comin’ back from nothin’, like some ghost or somethin’. But you’re real.” She paused, her large eyes flickering towards him. “You are real, right?” 

With a smile, Cyrlen held out his right hand. “Real as Dorian’s love for himself.”

Sera snorted. 

“You can hug me, just to make sure.” Cyrlen opened his arms. 

Her face scrunched up and she shook her head. “It’s not good, you know that right? All of this. It’s…” 

“Scary?” Cyrlen offered quietly.

Sera ducked her head. Her brows pressed together. 

Letting out a small breath, Cyrlen rested his arms on his knees. He watched people scramble to and forth. “In all honesty,” he dropped his voice. “I think I knew what would happen when I came back. I would like to say I never thought about it... Of just leaving.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sera give him a startled glance.

“But I did.” His brows fell together. “No one knew I was alive. My job was done. I closed the breach. I could go off on my own and continue closing rifts. The world would forget me.” 

“But you came back,” Sera said, her voice raw and quiet.

A smile curved Cyrlen’s lips. “I did. I realized I couldn’t. Even if I did try to run away, I would come back. See, a silly little thing happens when you get to know people. Your heart betrays you and you start to care for them.”

“Oh, shut it,” Sera muttered.

“I didn’t die, either. Despite what people are saying.” Cyrlen gently nudged her. “Your arrows saved me more than anything. Without them, without the avalanche, Corypheus would have killed me. And you bought everyone time. You’re a hero.”

With a grunt, Sera shoved him. “Stop bein’ all mushy. Gross.” 

Pain sparked like toothed needles along his sides, and he laughed through it. “Well at least  _ I  _ didn’t miss.  _ Twice. _ ” 

Sera punched his shoulder. “I aimed for his feet, arse!” 

He leaned away from her laughing, with a hand holding his shoulder. “Alright, if that’s how you’re telling it.” 

With a grunt, she bared her teeth at him. Her eyes fell away. “People usually only die one.  _ Once _ . Now it’s three times. You got nugs-for-brains.” 

“Or horrid luck,” Cyrlen said and raised his brows. 

“Blood-stained titsy luck,” she muttered.

Smiling lightly, he lowered his voice and said, “Arse-pasted luck.” 

Sera’s eyes widened and fell on Cyrlen. Her lips widened into a big grin. “Well look at you,” she cooed. “Hairy twat luck!”

“Bloody arse luck.”

“Hot sweaty dragon balls-ed luck!” 

“Shit covered pecker luck,” Cyrlen smiled triumphantly.

A snort rifted through Sera and she threw her head back with a cackle. She let out a long, “ _ Eeeeeeeeeeww! _ ” Laughing merrily, she unceremoniously flopped against him. “That’s gross. You’re gross.” 

Cyrlen smiled and rested his head against her. “All that matters is: I won.”

She snorted and giggled. “Sure you did.” 

 

* * *

 

_ We’re in search of a Warden. Well. At the moment, it’s just me. This place is crawling with the dead. Dark gray clouds dampen the sky and loosen the soil. It smells. Seems as if a rift as opened in the middle of the lake. As far as I can tell, most of the people are locked inside of their houses.  _

_ I try to help them fight, to ward off the creatures. But I’m getting very tired. This place is cursed. _

_ There are rumors of bandits and even of a dragon. _

_ I almost want to ward the Inquisitor off.  _

_ But the rift must be closed, somehow. And I want to meet him. I don’t know how he’ll react to see another Dalish, or if it matters to him anymore.  _

_ I just want to see him. I want to put a face to the person I’ve been following all these months. _

 

* * *

 

The map spread across the war table with different operations dotting the paper. Cassandra glowered heavily down at it, towards the pin that marked the Inquisitor’s location on his way towards Crestwood. It seemed too soon to send him out but he had insisted. 

Cullen paced the room, his hands raking desperately through his curls. They stuck up in odd angles, adding to his near silent distress. “I can’t believe this,” he repeated, again. “Maker.”

Clenching her jaw tightly, Cassandra shot a cutting gaze towards Leliana. Rage burned inside of her. 

The spymaster stared coldly down at the map; her eyes narrowed on the small mark that represented the Herald. 

Josephine murmured quietly to herself, choking over words and desperate murmurs. She ran her hands over her face, and collapsed against the war table. “What will we do? He’s already angry with us-”

“He’ll get over it,” Leliana said sharply.

“This-” Cullen said thickly.

Cassandra interrupted him by slamming her hands onto the table. “He came to us in  _ mourning.  _ How long have you known? This isn’t something small to get over, Leliana. This is cruelty.” 

“Look,” Leliana whirled on her. “I played my cards. We had no idea where his loyalties lied. It was precautionary step.”

“It was unnecessary!” Cassandra shouted. Her brows tightened together. She whirled away from the table and stomped around the room. “He’s been more than proving to the Inquisition! He’s sacrificed more than a lot of us!”

“We know that now,” Leliana said sharply.

Josephine held up her hands. “What’s done is done. We have to figure out how prepare for the damage.” She sighed sadly at the table. Her finger tapped Crestwood. “We must let the Herald know immediately.” 

“He’s already angry,” Cullen said, exasperated, “especially with what we pulled.” 

“Oh, I don’t even know how he’ll react,” Josephine whimpered. She hid her face in her hands. “We could lose everything—we could lose his  _ entire  _ trust. The Inquisition can’t run-”

“What if we sent a letter by crow?” Cullen glanced up. “With no news of how we found out, just…”

“No,” Leliana said with a frown. 

Cassandra paused. She stepped over to the table and stared thoughtfully down at Crestwood. “You redirected that scout team.” She said, accusingly. “His brother is waiting for him at Crestwood, isn’t he?” 

From underneath her hood, Leliana glanced pointedly up at Cassandra.

“And Cyrlen will run into his brother at the camp,” Cullen said, relieved.

“It still feels wrong,” Josephine whispered. “All these secrets.”

Cassandra made an annoyed grunt. 

 

* * *

 

_ Harding, _

 

_ The roads are stuffed with the dead. Rain soaks everything, and when it’s not raining, mist clogs the air. I’ve yet to find any trace of this informant of ours. But I have found other Wardens searching the area. Along with bandits.  _

_ I ran across a rift with demons spilling out from it. They’re very aggressive and powerful. I’ll send you a map of things I’ve discovered. _

_ Speaking off the record, this place is an absolute mess. I miss the desert at this point. I’ve fallen on my arse more times than I care to admit, and there’s danger up every arse near this dreadful place. There’s also a dragon.  _

_ I write to you while hidden underneath a rock’s ledge so that the ink might not bleed too much. _

_ I’m also injured. Those demons shot a fire ball that melted my armor onto my skin. I’ve doused myself in potions and bandaged myself up as well as I can, but I fear that no place is truly safe here.  _

_ Perhaps I should have taken up healing magic, like you had suggested. _

 

_ Sincerely, _

_ Maeron Lavellan  _

 

_ P.S. Please don’t worry. I somehow managed to survive the conclave. I plan to survive this, too. _

 

* * *

 

“Ah… just what I had hoped for. Rain.” Dorian sighed heavily, his brow furrowed. He had given up on adjusting his leathers and using spells to keep him dry. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Herald trying to hide a smile. “You could have dragged me out anywhere, you know.” 

“At least we’re out of the mountains,” Lavellan offered. 

“Ah yes. The mountains. Whose idea was it to build a castle right in the middle of arse end to nowhere? ‘Oh, see that? That tall, privy area atop that  _ really  _ cold mountain? Let’s build a castle!’ ‘A castle, you say? Brilliant! We shall transfer ourselves from one frostbite-inducing mountain to an even  _ more  _ frigid and horrid place! Our enemies will hate it!’” Dorian sighed and gave Lavellan a glance. “If you wanted to take me out on a date, perhaps choose somewhere a bit more romantic.” 

Laughter bubbled from Lavellan and he shyly smiled at Dorian. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.” 

Lightning cracked across the sky, lighting up the Herald’s eyes. He turned his face against the rain and closed his eyes. The water dripped down from his brow and followed the curve of his chin. It dropped onto his chest, soaking into his traveling gear. Dorian dragged his eyes away, staring down at the ground.

“Armor makes him stronger. He stands taller, but beneath is weaker. I wonder... his skin. Lips on his collarbone, hands carefully tracing the patterns of his bones.” 

A blush was born on Dorian’s neck and started up his skin. His eyes whipped around until he found the strange boy walking beside Cyrlen’s horse, with his hand on the horse’s flank. 

“His skin. It’s warm. Soft. He sleeps, unaware, but wanting. The marks follow his cheeks, delicate and fragile like who he pretends not to be. The marks are other places. Whispers down his chest and back. And places.”

“Cole?” Lavellan asked, startled. His voice broke airily. 

Dorian forced himself to remain poised, his eyes locked ahead of him. His lips pressed into a thin line. 

“You both hurt, and the warmth helps.” Cole glanced up at Lavellan. 

“That thing,” the Iron Bull muttered, his deep voice rumbling across their small company. “Did he have to come?” 

“He’s quite a curiosity, isn’t he?” Dorian said, his eyes narrowing. 

“Just wait till you see him fight, Bull.” Lavellan swallowed and looked at Dorian out of the corner of his eyes. A question whispered in his gaze. “You’ll like him more then.” 

A scout waved to them down the road. “Ah, look,” Dorian said. “We’re here.” His skin felt uncomfortably hot underneath the chill of the rain. 

Lavellan swallowed and nodded sharply. They reached the camp with little fuss. Lavellan slid off of his horse, and Harding immediately started towards them. “Herald!” She said brightly, smiling. Worry whispered in the press of her brow. “Well, it’s Inquisitor now, right? It’s good to see you safe. Oh! And congratulations. Sorry I missed it.” 

“Ah, well, you can make it up to me later,” Lavellan promised. His face was clean of emotion, but warmth filled his voice.

Harding smiled widely for a mere moment. “We’ve got trouble ahead.” 

“If you’re worried, it must be something.” Lavellan breathed out through his nose. “Is it really that bad?” Lighting burst across the sky. Harding inclined her head towards a wall and both her and the Herald walked towards it. After a single moment of silence, Lavellan deflated slightly and said, “Oh.” 

“Yeah.” Harding sighed. “This place was the site of a flood ten years ago during the Blight. And after that rift appeared, corpses started walking out of the lake.”

“Are you safe here?” Lavellan turned fully to her.

A small smile quipped the edge of Harding’s lips. “Safe enough. There are a few shamblers, but most head toward the village below.” She paused and shifted her weight on her feet. “You might be able to ask them how to get to the rift in the lake. Maker knows they’ll want help.” 

“Thank you.” The Herald let out a sigh. He hesitated before crossing his arms. “Harding, is there anything else?”

Surprise touched Harding’s eyes. She nodded solemnly. “There’s a, uh, scout missing. We found a letter from him, and some traces, but not much else.” Shifting on her feet, she rubbed the back of her head. “He’s a good friend, Your Worship. If you happen to find any trace of him…” 

“Do you know where he was last?” Lavellan’s brows pressed together. 

Harding pulled out a crumpled letter, water-smudged and barely legible. She handed it to Lavellan. “As far as we could tell, he had made his way around towards a rift and that’s about the last we know.” 

He squinted down at the letter, trying to make sense of the bleeding ink. “I’ll find him,” Cyrlen promised. He carefully folded the parchment and slid it inside his pocket. “Is everyone up for a quick stroll?”

“By stroll you mean smashing things?” the Iron Bull asked. He chuckled and raised his ax. “Always ready, boss.” 

 

* * *

 

Eyes watched him as he crouched down by the elfroot with careful hands. His knife worked easily and swiftly on the plant. Behind him, Dorian said, “Oh, you might have missed a plant. Back over there, if you want to get that one too.” 

A smile curled the edges of Cyrlen’s lips. “Thank you, I certainly will.” 

The mage let out a frustrated breath. “Kaffas, it  _ just  _ stopped raining.” 

Raindrops began to tease Cyrlen’s ears. He stood and gave the mage a raised brow. “I was beginning to miss the rain.”

Dorian crossed his arms. “You realize if you harvest the entire landscape, you’ll kill the plants.” 

With a wide smile, Cyrlen shook his head. “Not if you know how to harvest the plant without killing it.”

“Well, there you go,” Dorian pointed. “Right there. Oh! I see another! Go on.” 

Laughter filled Cyrlen. “You’re cute when you’re grumpy, Dorian.” He turned away from him and continued forward. His eyes scoured the landscape and he paused with a pursed lip. He crouched down beside a nearby elfroot. 

“Cute.” Dorian finally said, undignified.

“I can see it,” the Iron Bull replied. His voice rumbled like thunder. “Like a snappy little puppy you want to pet.” 

“Puppy?” Dorian’s voice raised indignantly. “I’m no Ferelden-”

“Well,” the Iron Bull said with a laugh, “a puppy is probably not what the boss wants to pet.”

Cyrlen held up a hand and raised to his feet. His eyes cut over to them. “This plant has been harvested.” 

“Oh no! Whatever shall we do?” Dorian said behind him. “Other than watch you bend over for us again, that is.” 

Heat scorched through Cyrlen’s skin and a laugh tumbled from his lips. He held a hand up to Dorian, his way of  _ ‘okay, you win’,  _ before he looked at the others. “That means the scout could have been through here. Keep a look out. Come on.” Dorian stepped up beside Cyrlen as he plunged forward again. He searched the wet grass with Cyrlen, using his staff to push aside the plants. “I’ll find a place to camp soon,” Cyrlen promised gently. 

Dorian paused and glanced up at him. “Oh, I complain. But for you,” he paused, his tongue freezing. Cyrlen could hear the “ _ my dear Herald”  _ at the end of the sentence. “For you,” Dorian repeated, “I would travel across Thedas.” Rather abruptly, Cyrlen stumbled. A deep chuckle filled Dorian and he caught Cyrlen to help hold him up. “Now, now. Don’t let my charm kill you.”

Face hot, Cyrlen grasped onto Dorian’s shoulders. “I don’t think that was  _ entirely  _ my fault-” He started.

“It’s lonely. Fear cuts into my lungs. It tastes like acid. Warm arms, once like a shield, are gone. Left exposed, on my own. Hesitant steps forward, uncertain, weary…” Cole whispered. He pointed towards Cyrlen’s feet. “There.” 

Cyrlen let go of Dorian and immediately dropped into a crouch. A small bag lay hidden in the grass. Water dampened it, making the fabric heavy and unruly. He dug through the bag and found miscellaneous things—some unused lyrium potions, a quill with no ink, and finally a small package wrapped up tightly in protective wax. 

“There,” Cole said again, crouched beside Cyrlen. “It’s where he wrote his hurt.” 

Carefully, Cyrlen pulled apart the waxy covering and peered inside. A letter sat atop the rest. The handwriting was small and slightly looping. It was familiar. The world fell heavily silent around him and pressed down onto his shoulders. His breath escaped his lungs. The first paragraph wrote:

_ I hoped it was a dream. The explosion, everything. I woke to the sky torn asunder, to fragments of what I thought the world was. Everything is in uproar. People are scared and confused. As of now, everything is at an unstable peace. _

“Is everything alright?” Someone whispered into Cyrlen’s ear. A warm hand cupped the back of Cyrlen’s head. He quickly closed the small package and glanced back up at Dorian. Worry made Dorian’s eyes shine like small gems. They searched Cyrlen’s expression, and somehow Cyrlen knew that he didn’t have to say a word for Dorian to understand. 

Swallowing, Cyrlen smiled halfheartedly. “The writing looked familiar, is all,” he said quietly. Reaching up, he laid a hand over Dorian’s wrist. “Perhaps we should find somewhere to camp for the night, so we can somewhat dry off. I’ll read more later. We might be able to figure out where the scout went.” 

 

* * *

 

A long sigh left Lavellan, again. He shifted. Light whispered into the tent for a second and heat filled it. Toasty, dry, and warm. Exactly how Dorian preferred it. He rolled over onto his side and propped his head up on a hand. In the darkness, he could just make out the curve of Lavellan’s ear, and the shape of his shoulder. Another breath left Lavellan. He rolled over, and a flash of eyes startled Dorian. 

“You’re awake?” Lavellan whispered, stunned. 

Putting a hand over his chest, Dorian let out a sigh. “Yes. Your moaning and groaning isn’t quite the lullaby as one would imagine.” A smile quirked his lips. “I’m guessing you can see me better than I can see you.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Lavellan reached across the tent and poked Dorian’s nose.

A chuckle filled Dorian. “I don’t think I would be able to find your nose,” he said, truthfully. “Perhaps your ears.” 

Lavellan edged closer. “They are quite the target.” His voice was thick with humor. “Granted, they’re larger than other elves.”

“Truly?” Dorian asked. 

“Yes. Well, at least in my clan.” Lavellan shifted, and Dorian guessed he was rubbing his ear. “It’s never bothered me before.” 

Voice dropping, Dorian said, “…before?” 

Lavellan fell silent. He shifted again and wrapped his arms around a blanket. A long breath escaped him. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard the quips, Dorian. It’s not as if I’m self-conscious about them now. It’s just… the difference between coming from a clan in which we celebrated our heritage to being branded something…” he hesitantly added, “ _ less. _ ”

“I suppose, similar to being a mage from Tevinter?” Dorian said lightheartedly.

When Lavellan spoke, a smile warmed his tone. “I suppose you’re right. But if I’m honest… I hadn’t heard much of the outside world before I went to the Conclave. My brother always tried to learn everything he could, but I was content to isolate myself. But I do love the language.” 

Chuckling deeply, Dorian felt his lips curl in delight. “Is that so?” 

“What is it?” Lavellan asked. “ _ Kaffas.  _ Or,  _ fasta vass _ ?  _ Venhedis. _ ” He spoke carefully and cautious, tasting every syllable on his tongue. The harsh swears turned into something softer and gentler, as if they were amicable words of love. 

Dorian couldn’t stop the smile from filling his face. “You’ve been listening.”

“I hear it often enough,” Lavellan said with a quiet laugh.

“Alas, as much as you may like it, much of the language has been pushed aside. We speak mostly in common.” Dorian smiled. “Lucky for you, I know a few phrases.” 

“Can I hear them?” Lavellan whispered. 

“Hm… continue to hear myself speak? Talk more about myself? Show off my great, vast knowledge? Well, if I must.” Dorian chuckled. He shifted closer to Lavellan, his heart wobbly in his chest. The darkness of the tent felt intimate. 

He was close enough to hear Lavellan’s soft intake of breath before he laughed quietly.

 

* * *

 

Cyrlen crawled from the tent and stretched in the quiet sunlight. He locked his fingers together and pulled his hands behind his head, leaning back. His joints popped and cracked. He yawned and dropped his arms back to his sides. Dorian sat by the fire, unabashedly watching him. Warmth knotted in Cyrlen’s upper cheekbones and prickled across skin. 

A sly smirk curled the edges of Dorian’s lips. He raised a daring brow. “Good morning.”  _ ‘Dear Herald’  _ was missing from the end of it. 

“Avanna,” Cyrlen said. 

Delight filled Dorian’s eyes. He sat back and considered Cyrlen for a moment. 

With a shy smile, Cyrlen moved to the campfire and held his hands up to the burning heat. “You all let me sleep in. It’s alright to wake me. Especially on the road.” 

“You’re quite the deep sleeper,” Dorian mused, turning to the fire. He waved a hand towards the pot cooling off to the side. “Eat something. It’s warm enough still.” 

Cyrlen rolled his shoulders. “We should start heading out soon.”

“Find out anything from the letters, Boss?” the Iron Bull asked. He squinted at the tip of a knife before rolling back his lips to pick something in his teeth.

“Not yet, unfortunately.” Cyrlen looked up towards the sky. “The scout has written about his journey through the Inquisition, and the letters aren’t quite in order. I feel bad for rifling through something so personal.” 

A deep, rumbling laugh filled the Iron Bull. “I wouldn’t mind someone reading through my shit if it meant saving my life.” 

“I think if you did write, it would be about your exploits and therefore rather useless,” Dorian said. He gathered a bowl and pulled the pot near to him, scooping some type of liquid concoction into it. There looked to be some unidentified chunks. 

Cyrlen winced. “You never know,” he said, “perhaps he writes about how he plans to seduce an entire company of red templars and what he plans to do with them. Then we’d have something to go off of.”

The Iron Bull rolled his head back and let out a roaring laugh. 

“Andraste help the fool who stumbles upon  _ that, _ ” Dorian said dryly. “It’d be worse than whatever farce Varric comes up with.” He lifted the bowl to Cyrlen with a pinning gaze.

Cyrlen was half tempted to walk away, just to see if the mage would chase after him. Withholding a small smile, he took a seat next to Dorian and took the bowl from him. “I’ve never read any of Varric’s books. Perhaps I should pick one up.” 

The Iron Bull let out another laugh, slapping his knee. “I don’t think it’s in your…  _ tastes,  _ Boss.” 

“I think you’d be surprised, Bull.” Cyrlen muttered into his soup. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dorian’s curious glance. He sniffed the broth and withheld a sigh. It smelled far too salty. With his spoon, he poked the miscellaneous floating objects. 

“Woulda want a sword or a sheath?” 

Cyrlen paused and glanced up at the Iron Bull. “Excuse me?” 

“Let’s say you walk into a tavern and there’s a  _ really  _ handsome, daring man with his eyes on you. You know, tall, dark hair. Eyes like gems.” The Iron Bull held up his hands. Heat began to rise in Cyrlen. “Or there’s this waitress and she has got the  _ stuff.  _ Mm…” He used his hands to make curves. “All the hips,  _ great breasts, _ and hair shining like fire underneath the candle light.” 

“I am missing your point, Bull,” Cyrlen said thickly.

“You could pin  _ either  _ of them. The best ride of your  _ life! _ ” The Iron Bull threw his hands in the air. “Sword or sheath?” 

“Oh,  _ Creators,”  _ Cyrlen said, dropping his head into his hands. His skin blistered underneath his embarrassment. 

“Hell. Or even  _ both _ .” The Iron Bull chuckled from the back of his throat. “A neat little sandwich right there.” 

Cyrlen set aside his food and groaned into his hands. “ _ Bull. _ ”

“Yeah! Like that!” The Iron Bull laughed.

“ _ Ma ghilana mir din’an, _ ” Cyrlen murmured. 

A laugh rumbled from Dorian and he shook his head. “Perhaps it’s best to leave our darling Inquisitor alone.” 

“I can set somethin’ up for you,” the Iron Bull pressed. “Easy. Relieve some of that stress now that you’re all healed up.” 

Cyrlen held up a hand. “Bull. I beg you, don’t. My affairs are my own. Creators.” He straightened and breathed in. “How dare you ruin  _ sheaths _ for me. Staffs were already enough.” 

A surprised laugh barked from Dorian. 

Grinning widely, the Iron Bull shrugged. “Alright, boss. Whatever you say. Just know I’m here when you need it.”

“Ah, as amusing and telling as this conversation was,” Dorian said with a smirk, “I think I’ll start dissecting those papers, if you don’t mind.” He raised a brow at Cyrlen.

“Go right ahead.” Cyrlen rested a hand on Dorian’s knee and gave it a quick squeeze. “Thank you.” He picked up his bowl again and started poking the soup. 

“Don’t think about it,” Dorian said as he stood. He motioned to the soup. “It’s not as bad as it might seem. Though we should keep an eye on that little friend of yours. I swear he was putting in different spices. But do eat it.” 

Smiling, Cyrlen waved him off. “I promise. The entire thing will be gone by the time you emerge from the tent.” 

Dorian shook his head and walked away. 

“Speaking of which, where’d that little demon go?” The Iron Bull looked around him, his brows squished together. 

“Cole does what he needs to,” Cyrlen said. “He’s probably found something to talk to.” 

“Something,” the Iron Bull muttered. “Boss, I know this scout’s important to you, but we should start figuring how to take down those bandits.”

Brows raised, Cyrlen looked up at the Iron Bull between scoops of soup. He swallowed. “I’ve sent word for soldiers to try and defend the town. I’ve told Sera, Solas and Blackwall to head our way. We can’t wait for reinforcements, unfortunately. It will take too long for them to get here, and I would like to take care of that rift as swiftly as possible.” Cyrlen paused and tapped his spoon on his lip. “I was actually going to discuss with you how you think we should approach them. I plan to hold siege as soon as the others arrive.” 

“So,” Dorian said from the tent, “what you’re saying is that we have a  _ really  _ long day ahead of us.”

Cyrlen smiled and called back, “I hope you’ve slept well!” 

 

* * *

 

“I swear you attract injuries like a flame attracts moths,” Dorian muttered. His hands pressed against the Herald’s skin, hot from adrenaline. He smelled of his leather and the sharp, tantalizing energy of magic. A deep breath filled Lavellan, expanding his chest underneath Dorian’s fingers. “The potions seemed to take care of most of it,” Dorian said. But his fingers lingered.

Lavellan stood with his tunic and arms raised, covering his face from Dorian’s perspective. They stood off in the shadows, away from stray eyes. Lavellan cleared his throat. “That’s good. Personally, I rather stop dragging my injured arse all the way back to the Inquisition.” Chuckling, Dorian whispered a cooling spell against the wound to help with the swelling. The Herald let out a small noise and dropped his tunic. His arms wrapped around himself and he gave Dorian a light-hearted glare. “You could have warned me.” 

A smile filled Dorian’s lips and he raised a brow. “Oh? Then what’s the fun in that?” 

Lavellan pressed his hands on either side of Dorian’s neck and leaned in close. His lips whispered across his skin. A cold breath washed down Dorian, diving underneath his armor and coating his skin. Goosebumps sparked across his arms, chest, and legs. And a fire burned in the pit of his stomach, but  _ that  _ wasn’t caused by the magic.

Smiling triumphantly, Lavellan stepped back and placed his hands on his hips.

Dorian, for once in his life, was completely speechless.

“Inquisitor?” A voice called hesitantly. 

Lavellan turned and stepped out of their little nook. “You were looking for me?” 

With a long breath, Dorian collapsed against the wall of the building. He wiped a hand over his face and stared at the wall across from him. 

“Y-Yes, Your Worship. The scout you’ve been looking for?”

“Yes?” 

“We’ve found him.”

“Have you?” Lavellan’s voice lifted but remained careful. 

“Yes. He has an infected wound, but it’s getting taken care of. As of right now, he’s on his way back to Skyhold. Harding thought that you might like to know.” 

The Herald was silent for a few moments. Quietly he said, “Thank you. Send my well wishes if you may. Would you happen to know the name of this scout?” 

“Oh,” the soldier said with a laugh, “if I’m honest, ser, we all call him ‘Kitten’. I don’t think I’ve been properly introduced to him. He’s a curious little thing. Once he almost rode a horse off a cliff.” 

“My! Better keep a close eye on that one. Well, thank you.” The Herald’s voice was warm. He turned back to Dorian. Something shadowed Lavellan’s eyes. 

The soldier took the dismissal and scrambled off. Dorian carefully stepped up to Lavellan and crossed his arms, studying him. His ears were slightly lower than normal. “What is it?” Dorian said, gently.

Lavellan sighed. “You’ll think me a hopeless fool.” 

“Wouldn’t change my opinion much from what it is now,” Dorian said with a teasing smile.

A faint whisper of humor lifted Lavellan’s lips. “Ha. Ha. You’re brilliantly charming.” He breathed out through his mouth and looked away. “It’s just… with the journal, and the way that the scout wrote…” Light shined in the Herald’s eyes. “He is very similar to my brother.” 

“Well…” Dorian rubbed his chin. “I do believe we still have to finish reading it. And it might be in our best interest to return it to him, in person.” 

Lavellan gave him a surprised glance. “You’re right. But we still have a rift to close.” 

“And dead things to mull over.” Dorian waved a dismissive hand. “Well. We better get going on that now, shall we? You focus on your Inquisitorial business, and I’ll read when I can.” 

A relieved smile filled Lavellan’s lips. “I know it’s hopeless to think he’s alive.”

Dorian took a deep breath. It was in this moment he wished he had less pride.  _ Your first name, Lavellan. I think you’ve forgotten to formally introduce yourself. And I’m too much of a proud fool to ask.  _ He placed a hand on Lavellan’s small shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Hope’s a cruel thing, yet you can never really control it. I understand. You don’t need to explain it to me.”

Relief filled Lavellan’s face and he set his hand over Dorian’s. He held onto it tightly. “Thank you, for understanding.” 

“I do believe that’s a part of our friend contract,” Dorian said with a smile. “Along with my shoulder being yours. So, feel free.” 

“That extends to you, too.” Lavellan took in a deep breath. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Dorian.”

“I am rather helpful, aren’t I?” Dorian smirked. He couldn’t imagine what the world would have turned out to be like without Lavellan. But then again, he didn’t think he could ever imagine someone like his dear Inquisitor.

 

* * *

 

Laughter rumbled around the tavern, intoxicating the late night. Soldiers alike leaned off another, singing along with the bard and raising their mugs to the air. The few that hadn’t had a drink sat back with grins on their faces.

Maeron sat in the corner, hand gently nursing his side. He couldn’t wipe the large, embarrassed grin off his face. Harding stood beside him, with scouts and a few of the Chargers leaning in. They clung to her every word. 

“And I’m just left with a letter from this idiot,” Harding motioned towards Maeron.

People laughed and someone landed a beefy hand on Maeron’s shoulder. He covered his face with his hand and let out an embarrassed chuckle. He said, “In all honesty, I was a bit delirious.” 

“ _ A letter.  _ Alright. It’s raining buckets, we’re all soaked to undergarments trekking through muck, mud,  _ and  _ the dead.” Harding grinned. “And you want to know where this ass is?” 

“Kitten’s tucked away in a nice little cottage, chewing on some elfroot!” Another scout cut in.

Hands clapped Maeron’s back, and roaring laughter bounced around him. 

“ _ Elfroot!” _  The previous scout reiterated. 

“He’s curled up in blankets, out of the rain with a nice little fire and warm food, and _ we’re  _ dragging are arses across Crestwood. He even had the Inquisitor looking for him!” Harding shook her head, a wide smile on her lips. 

Someone bent over giggling, spilling some of their drink on the wooden floor. Maeron ducked his head into his arm and chuckled, embarrassment coloring his skin. 

The laughter cut off abruptly. People stumbled aside. Maeron pulled his arm away and glanced up curiously. His stomach dropped in surprise. The Commander and the Seeker stood at the edge of the group. They shared a glance.

“Sirs!” The Inquisition soldiers said at once.

Maeron ducked his head and followed in salute, slapping a fist over his thundering heart. “No need,” the Seeker said sharply.

“What can we do for you?” Harding asked, her soft voice cutting over the rowdiness of the tavern.

“Nothing right now,” the Commander assured. 

The Seeker grunted. “There’s someone we wish to talk to.” 

Maeron glanced up. Both the Commander and Seeker stared at him. His heart stammered in alarm. “Maeron?” The Seeker guessed. “Maeron Lavellan?” 

“I…” Maeron sat up, startled. “Yes, ser?” 

The Seeker’s face fell, softening. Her brows pinched together. “Come with us.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A group of friends pointed out that "dandy" was one letter away from " _daddy_ " and I can't _u n s e e_ someone help. 
> 
> Some important things to consider:  
> \- The Hawke belongs to Cat, they have some really cool HCs about their characters! You should definitely [ask](https://psychoticcupcake.tumblr.com/ask) them about it.  
> \- _Ma ghilana mir din’an_ : Guide me into death  
>  \- _Avanna_ : Hello  
>  \- _Kaffas_ : Definitely means "poopy woopy"  
>  \- _Fasta vass_ : A 100% is "faster please"  
>  \- _Venhedis _: Totally is "ride me"__
> 
> ** Maeron Lavellan belongs to a dear friend of mine, [Dina](https://little-dina-saur.tumblr.com/)! **


	11. Glittering Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anxiety, man. It's _terrible_. It never shuts up--as in, ever. Seriously. Let someone else talk, am I right? Like a sibling or something. Let them _speak_ -
> 
> Everyone knows where this is going. 
> 
> Right? 
> 
> There's also some undead somewhere. And claustrophobia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it... this is the moment... You know. _The moment._
> 
> We are now reaching eleven chapters, and breaching past 70k words. Dang, guys. This is insane. Thanks for sticking with me. This piece is honestly such a big comfort to me. I hope some of you have had a laugh with it too!
> 
> Also long chapter, because I killed you all last time. Soak it up, bebs.
> 
> Big thanks to [Carrie](http://faslaidir.tumblr.com/). Your ghostly presence on my doc encouraged me to write more. And thanks answering all my questions and hearing my ramblings. You're AMAZING.
> 
> Also, thank you [Moo](http://elvhen-apostate-hobo.tumblr.com/). You're such an absolute delight, and I don't know what I'd do without you <3!

A breeze whipped past them, chilling the wet air. His eyes lifted the stormy sky. The clouds rolled over one another, dark gray and angry. Raindrops littered down from the colorless expanse and splattered against his skin. Cyrlen sighed. His eyes fell to the stone building ahead of them. If the weather kept going on as it had, he feared his body would give into some sickness.

Between the mutters of rain, Cyrlen heard another muffled complaint from Dorian. The man tossed an offended glance at the sky.

With an amused smile, Cyrlen lifted a hand. Magic slipped through him and formed a barrier above Dorian’s head. “You could have gone back to Skyhold. I wouldn’t have minded,” he said.

Dorian lifted his gaze to Cyrlen, searching his face. “And leave you alone to kill the undead? Miss the opportunity to see you prance around?” His lips curled and he threw a hand towards Cyrlen, putting another barrier above his head. “What would you do without me?”

“Well, undoubtedly I would stay rather soaked.” Cyrlen glanced up at the magic, warmth sprouting in his chest. Thunder grumbled above their heads. He sighed and gave a glance towards Blackwall. “We should get a move on. We’ve almost reached the dam controls.”

“About time,” the Warden said as he squinted against the rain. “What do you suppose we’ll do when we get there?”

“Assess the damage.” Cyrlen started forward. The shield above his head dissolved and raindrops returned to pelt his head. “I believe it’s that building right there.” He waved a finger towards it and trekked down the hill.

Behind him, Dorian sighed. “How about I choose where we go next? That ought to be interesting.” Their shoes clapped onto the stone bridge.

“Can’t imagine that would be anywhere helpful.” Blackwall gave him a side eye. “Seeking comfort, mage? A slave to make your bed for you?”

“I would be more than happy for just a bed,” Dorian replied, tone sharp as a blade. “I’m sure that’s something even you are acquainted with? Then again, you seem lack education in hygiene.”

Blackwall simmered.

“You two,” Cyrlen warned. “We’re all on the same side here.”

“And you can be so sure?” Blackwall grumbled. He balked seconds later, his face coloring. “I apologize, Lord Inquisitor.”

Cyrlen shed a long sigh, shaking his head. His eyes swept over the door, towards a sign swinging in the wind. “Well would you look at that. A tavern. Do you think we might find any left over bottles in there?”

“Are you offering me a drink?” Dorian glanced at him, lips curving in delight. “Couldn’t think of somewhere a tad more romantic?”

A blush colored Cyrlen’s skin. “I’m horribly shy.” Cyrlen shot him a wry smile. “I take opportunities as I see them.”

Blackwall snorted and shot a glare over the sides of the walkway..

Cyrlen’s throat clogged. It wasn’t as if he could force the two to make friends and play nice. He brushed away his discomfort and stepped up to the door. Mildew decorated it, and rust colored the handle. He pulled the door open with care. Dry air pressed over them, promising them somewhere dry and warm. He dove into the tavern. A musty odor stained the walls and the floorboards creaked underneath his feet. The shuffling footsteps of his team followed him. Murmurs slid from the heart of the building. Inclining his head, Cyrlen tightened his hold onto his staff.

Someone giggled. Cyrlen stepped out onto the main room. Spells whispered over his skin and waited for release. Smells lived like ghosts around the space. Like dusty piss and moldy sweat. His eyes fell on movement on the ground. He threw up a barrier around the team and a fire spell fell into the palm of his hand.

Two women lay among a mass of blankets, half dressed and with rosy cheeks and shining skin. Cyrlen choked.

“Oh,” Dorian said, laughter filling his tone. “I think the only thing to fear here, my friend, is passion.”

“It’s the Inquisitor!” One of the two lovers screeched. She stumbled to her feet, abashed, and stumbled to cover herself. “Ser!”

“Turn around,” Cyrlen snapped at his gaping team. He yanked off his cloak and offered it to the woman. Skin roasting, he covered his eyes and turned away. “A tavern? Of all places? You two couldn’t think of a place a bit more… _conventional?”_

Dorian trapped a burst of laughter underneath his hand, smothering it.

“How did you two manage to get past the guards?” Blackwall said. He sounded impressed.

“Guards? Ser,” the woman hugged the cloak to her chest as her partner buried herself in the blankets. “There… there were no guards when we came! We’re… we’re so sorry! We hadn’t…”

“There’s no harm,” Cyrlen assured, speaking too fast. He shook his head. “Though I would suggest you clean up.” He cleared his throat as heat scorched his cheeks.

“They hadn’t meant this,” Cole intoned. “‘Skin warm and rosy underneath the afternoon sun. Her mother will yell again if I try to kiss her. In the shadows her hand slips into my trousers. I yearn for more. I want to hold her until the sun dies and is reborn. They can’t find out. They can’t take her away’”

“Cole,” Cyrlen swallowed. “Let them be. This…” He waved a hand in the air. “I’d rather forget this, if you will. Don’t worry if anyone finding out. Just… be _careful._ ” Cyrlen started around them and headed towards another doorway. He heard Dorian giggle behind him. His ears became hot with shame.

“Oh, thank the Maker…” The woman murmured.

“This is _your_ fault,” her partner whispered, voice thick with misery. “Had we just gone to the caves…”

Cyrlen slipped into the other room and covered his face with his hands. The voices drew quiet. He heard Dorian’s muted laughter and ignored him as he patted his back. “There, there. You’re alright. They’ll forget about it soon enough.”

A deep breath filled Cyrlen. “Creators.” He dropped his hands and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That brings back _horrid_ memories. Let’s move on. Please.” He cleared his throat. His eyes fell on a contraption in the middle of the floor. It looked like an enlarged version of the helm of a ship. Curious, Cole stepped into it and pulled himself up on the middle base. He stared around at the spigots

“Memories?” Dorian glanced up at him, eyes glittering. “Care to share some stories?”

“No. I really rather let this moment pass so I might stop blushing.” Cyrlen shook his head. Brows pulling together, he surveyed the room. “Is this the dam controls?”

“These are the _damn_ controls, yes.” Dorian experimented with one of the handles. “Certainly doesn’t look very broken, does it?”

“The mayor’s shame had this shape…” Cole murmured.

Cyrlen deflated. His eyes stared down at the floor. “The mayor never mentioned anyone _fixing_ the controls.” He pressed his lips into a thin line. “I don’t like this. Alright, come on. Let’s open the dam.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You sent the others to search for more bandits.” Dorian pushed aside seaweed with his staff and inspected a glittering gold chain.

“That I had,” Lavellan said, distracted. His eyes searched the horizon, trying to figure where the rift was. It hadn’t been at the old town. Of _course_ things couldn’t be so easy. At least the rain let off a bit. Mist dampened the dark day, and chilly winds had died down. Lavellan’s eyes settled on Dorian with curiosity written within them.

“Yet you offered for me to return to Skyhold.” Dorian poked the chain. “Told me to return for rest.”

A breath left Lavellan. “Oh. That.”

“Yes, that.” Dorian drew himself. “You don’t need to pamper me. If I want to be pampered, there are _other_ methods I can think of-”

The corner of Lavellan’s lips twitched and he ducked his head to hide a blush. “ _Dorian._ I’m not pampering you. I was going to send you back so that you could track down that scout of ours and give him his journal back.”

“I… _oh._ ” Dorian looked ahead of him. “…Do you wish I went back?”

“Even if you had, I’m still stuck here. I wouldn’t hear word of anything till I returned back to Skyhold, or if you sent a bird. Waiting would make me too anxious, anyhow.” Lavellan stepped into the remains of an old house. “If it counts for anything, I’m glad you stayed.”

Heat unrolled in Dorian’s chest. He smiled after Lavellan.

“We might have found something over here!” Blackwall called over the decrepit village.

Lavellan popped out of the shambled house, pocketing something shiny. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can search out Hawke’s friend.” As he passed Dorian, he squeezed his elbow.

“And the sooner we can get back to our scout,” Dorian chirped. He followed Lavellan, his heart beating warmth through his limbs. “We _are_ going to share tales, aren’t we?” His lips quirked into a mischievous curl. “I’ve got a few good ones.”

“I’m almost afraid.” Lavellan’s cheeks colored. He lead the way up a slope. “Does this include the time you were straddled in a flooded area?”

“Oh, it was a busted fountain. I hadn’t thought of that one. Now I have a bit more than a few.” Dorian glanced at him. “You remembered that? _”_

“It’s been plaguing me for _weeks._ ” Lavellan shot him a smile that tripped his heart.

“Well, we can’t have that.” Dorian spotted Blackwall’s usual brooding frown. “It all started with a pair of silky knickers.”

Blackwall raised his brows, unamused. “We found this,” he grumbled. His thumb jammed towards a wooden door and wall built into a cliff side.

A sigh left Lavellan. “I don’t suppose this is actually a portal that would get us directly to the rift?”

“Uh… no.” Blackwall opened the door. He looked uncomfortable at the possibility.

Dorian stepped ahead of them and peered into the darkness. He hummed in thought. “It’s moments like this, staring at the black face of a deep cave that I wonder; _Dorian, is it really worth it?”_ Face falling into a grimace, Dorian added, “It smells of rotting piss.”

“Can piss rot?” Lavellan slid up next to him, peering into the wall of blackness. A spirit paced back and forth on the floor, lost to itself. “At least we’re in good company.” He patted Dorian’s side before sliding down a ladder.

Sighing, Dorian followed after him.

The smell of rotten flesh clung to the slick sides of the cave’s walls. Water dripped down; it landed somewhere in the inky depths. It was truly welcoming. Dorian scrunched his nose, wincing. He said, “Things buried in water should really stay that way. Like fish. Fish hardly smell good.”

“I think you just have a prejudice against water.” Lavellan waved a hand in the air, summoning an orb of light. The sludgy darkness inched away. His face glowed in the hushed light. “But you’re right. I can’t stand the taste of fish. I’ve tried cooking it several different ways.”

“Have you ever tried cooking it with garlic and butter?” Blackwall said. He landed on the bottom step. His armor clanked and sent out a din. “I don’t mind it.”

Both Dorian and Lavellan cringed. Dorian quipped, “Perhaps because you smell of it. It’s like home to you.” He sent forward his own small light.

“Ha. Funny.” Blackwall’s tone suggested otherwise.

Cole appeared in front of them, crouched on the ground. A startled scream built in Dorian’s throat but he clamped it down. The boy tilted his head at something beyond the walls and floor. “It’s here, below us. Like a window looking in with whispers falling out.” His eyes lifted towards them.

A chill whispered up Dorian’s spine.

Releasing a long breath, Lavellan wiped a hand over his head, upsetting his hair. It had grown longer since Dorian had met him. Now loose locks of hair curled around his ears, and at times fell in front of his eyes. Dorian had to ignore the itch to push them back.

Lavellan said, “I suppose, of course, asking for the rift to be more accessible was a bit too much.”

“Are we _complaining?”_ Dorian asked, bemused.

“I don’t like caves. Even if one might have saved my life.” Lavellan started forward. He gulped. His eyes searched through the thick shadows.

“The light is afraid to push further,” Cole whispered.

Lavellan stopped. “Cole, usually I really enjoy the way you describe things. At the moment it’s not entirely comforting.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Cole pursed his lips in thought. “It’s _really_ dark.”

A small smile twitched the corner of Lavellan’s lips. “Can’t say you’re wrong.”

“I’ll go first,” Dorian offered. He slipped by Lavellan and pushed ahead. Their footsteps echoed and bounced around the walls. It multiplied the footsteps of the four, making it sound as if an army walked around them. His heart rocked in his chest, unsettled.

The cave was an empty space of footsteps and dripping water. It darkness cramped around them, only moving aside when the lights got too close. Voices whispered in the shadows. Dorian didn’t care if it was the fear; his feathers felt rather ruffled.

A small light appeared in front of Dorian. His heart dropped. He squinted at it.

Breath brushed the back of his neck. “Look, it’s another spirit.”

“ _Vishante Kaffas!”_ Dorian yelped. “Cole!” He whipped around. The boy stood inches from him. “There’s a certain aspect of _space_ a man prefers when spelunking a previously flooded cave.”

Cole blinked. He stepped back and stopped at Lavellan’s side. If it weren’t for the light sheen of sweat on Lavellan’s temple or the discomfort in the set of his jaw, he might look amused. Behind him, Blackwall covered a laugh with a cough.

The spirit moved past them, head lowered and distracted. Lavellan’s eyes tracked it.

“Downwards and onwards, then.” Dorian studied Lavellan’s expression before starting forward again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Droplets splattered on his ear. He twitched his head away from it, wincing as the grimy water slid down the shell of his ear. His eyes stayed glued to the back of Dorian’s heels. He tried to keep his mind blank, yet his mind whirled with irrational thoughts. Fear flattened his lungs against his ribs and prickled his fingertips.

Hazy light pressed down from overhead as wood creaked beneath their feet. More spirits fluttered around them, aimless and lost. _The rift._ Cyrlen had to keep reminding himself. _The rift._ The sooner it closed, the sooner he’d be above the ground and not in danger of it falling on him.

The air thinned. Dorian stepped off the wood and bowed his head. He slipped into a thin tunnel. Cyrlen focused on his breathing. _One, two, three, four, five, in… one, two, three, four…_ He pushed in after him, heart trembling like a thin branch caught in a storm.

Rocks rumbled above their heads. Cyrlen choked on the air and threw himself backwards, plowing into a body. Arms snapped around him, holding him up. “It’s okay. The walls aren’t tired,” Cole promised.

Breath escaped his lungs and air slipped away from him. Mouth gaped, he closed his eyes and tore himself away from Cole. He braced his hands on his knees. The world wrapped like a cord around him, trapping his arms to his sides and crushing his lungs.

_The walls aren’t tired._ Images of rocks falling on top of them pummeled into his brain. He saw himself trapped underneath the mound, lost in darkness. In his mind he screamed for help and clawed at the rocks. He would die alone. _It’s okay. We’re okay._

A hand pressed against his back. “What’s going on?” Dorian murmured in his ear.

Cylren tried to swat him away. “N-Nothing…” The images replayed themselves, blocking his visions. He wheezed, his lungs screaming for air.

“Come now,” Dorian said, voice quiet. His hand slid to Cyrlen’s shoulder and clenched onto it. “We’re friends, remember? We _are,_ aren’t we?”

_Friends._ Cyrlen clawed for a hold on Dorian. He clenched onto his tunic, his fingers hooking around one of the many belts on his armor. “W-We are,” Cyrlen whispered, airy and breathless. He swallowed. The images quieted. Reluctant, Cyrlen straightened and shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

Dorian gave him an easy smile. “No apologies necessary. Now, care to explain?”

“I… am…” Cyrlen lost his voice, cheeks heating. “Being underground is discomforting.”

Sympathetic amusement lit Dorian’s steel eyes. He held the back of Cyrlen’s head with a hand. It grounded him. “Discomforting?” Dorian echoed with a nod. “Alright. We can spelunk ahead, if you wish. Directly find the rift and come back to-”

“That’s worse.” Cyrlen shook his head. “No. If I turn around and go back, I’m not coming back.” He placed a hand over Dorian’s, his cheeks warming. “I don’t plan on losing you, either.”

Blackwall cleared his throat behind them.

Heat burned the tips of Cyrlen’s ears. He swung around, breaking away from Dorian’s hold. “Any of you,” Cyrlen amended.

“Down here, there’s no escape. Out there… there are no ends. No ways to be trapped forever.” Cole tilted his head. “It’s more permanent than wood and cloth.”

“Cole, do you remember what I said about descriptors?” Cyrlen let out a breath and pinched between his brows. “Let’s move on.”

“I’ll lead the way,” Blackwall said. He started forward and slipped between the tunnel. “Can’t really blame the Inquisitor. I’ll certainly be happy to get out of here.” Cole slipped after the warden, like a shadow following its person.

A hand wrapped around Cyrlen’s own. Dorian pushed forward. “Close your eyes, if it helps. The space opens up rather quickly.” Nodding, Cyrlen closed his eyes. Blind, he listened to Dorian’s careful steps. Rocks crunched underneath their boots. His shoulder brushed against a wet wall. The rock surrounded him. Breath quickening, Cyrlen held tighter onto Dorian's hand. “So, what was that you said?” Dorian inquired, "Bad memories?”

“Bad…?” Cyrlen frowned. Revelation stroke a wave of embarrassment through him. “You’re referencing the tavern, aren’t you?”

Dorian chuckled with glee.

“I… was…” Cyrlen said, his heart jumped in his throat, “ _spending time_ with a friend. But… it turned out that they were a noble. Their parents found us and were rather angry. They lectured the two of us thoroughly before I had managed to escape. We never spoke again.”

“Truly? How sad. Lectured for… playing cards then?” Humor tickled Dorian’s tone.

Cyrlen clenched his jaw. His ears burned like iron underneath direct sunlight. “You know very well what I’m talking about.”

“Do I?” Dorian teased. “Sharing brunch? Oh! Braiding another’s hair?” He paused. “How did you get into a mess with some noble’s child when you’re Dalish?”

“I met them on a road. Their horse had ran from them.” Cyrlen sighed. “I thought they were a servant of some sort. A fancily dressed servant.”

Dorian laughed. “Would it really have made a difference if you knew? Oh, you can open your eyes now… There looks to be something that wants to kill us.”

Cyrlen opened his eyes. A demon shifted between natural pillars, glaring. He drew a barrier around them and pressed towards it. “Cole, flank right! Blackwall, watch out. There’s undead rising.” He caught Dorian’s arm. “You’re staying by my side.”

A smile filled Dorian’s face and he winked at Cyrlen. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  


* * *

 

_I remember nights with the glittering sky above my head, and my brother whispering to me tales of the stars._

_I can still remember the way his voice would dip, seconds before he was about to say something to make me laugh._

The falling sun spread over Crestwood, helping to dry the damp world. Dorian stared down at the parchment and studied the careful, neat script of the scout’s hand. He breathed out through his nose and rubbed a hand over his face.

He heard Sera’s bolstering cackle. She squatted near the fire, mocking what Dorian could only guess was a druffalo. Laughing, she crab-walked around the campfire and held her hands in the shape of horns on her head.

Laughter illuminated Lavellan’s face. His lips gave a small wry curve before he spoke. He was telling a joke—Dorian would bet fifty royals on it. Seconds later, Sera fell on her seat and let out another laugh.

_Predictable._ Dorian shook his head and dropped his gaze back down at the paper.

_But he would try his hardest to get people around him to laugh. He would try to make it seem like things weren’t as bad as they were._

_He always had a stupid habit of shouldering all the blame, all the responsibilities, as if to protect me._

“Kaffas,” Dorian murmured. He pressed two fingers to his temple and pressed precise circles against his skull. It would all be so much easier if the scout said a name. Any name. Then Dorian could show _that_ to Lavellan. But this?

It was the perfect trap. A young man missing his older brother, one described like Cyrlen right down to the title. And the boy was a mage. _And_ a Dalish elf. It seemed too prosed, too _perfect._

“Oh Ser Handsome Bottom,” Sera sang.

Dorian withheld a startled jump. His eyes snapped up to her, narrowing at the wide smile on her lips. “Why hello, Sera. It’s not like you to seek out my company. Have you finally given in to my charm?”

She snorted and plopped down on the ground in front of him, rolling her eyes. “What? No. Ew.” A small knife appeared in her hands and she began to pick out dirt from underneath her nails. “Simply just saw you bein’ all _Tevintery_ an’ shite.” She glanced up at him. “You found somethin’, didn’t you?”

Raising his brows, Dorian said, “Excuse me?”

“That! Don’t act stupid,” she accused, waving the knife towards the parchment. “We all know what that’s about. Heard of it enough, that is. Searchin’ around for some nug-for-brains and here Cornflower’s all antsy like some…” She paused. “Ants are crawlin’ around his bits.”

“Clever.” Dorian smiled. He let out a breath and studied the paper. “I haven’t really found anything concrete, just yet.”

“How many more of those things you got?” Sera went back to picking her nails. “It’s not like it’s gonna be easy. ‘Hello! M’name’s Corn-Whatever-Junior, an’ I’m missing my big brother Lord-Tight-Pants.’”

Laughter rumbled in the back of his throat. “Well, no. That would surely be appreciated, but unfortunately no. Our mystery scout is still rather unnamed.” He sighed. “I’ve read through everything.”

“And?” Sera raised a brow.

With a deep breath, Dorian began to count off his fingers. “So far we know he’s a mage, he’s been mistaken for the Inquisitor, is Dalish and-”

“That it?” she cried. Sera jumped up to her feet. “What else do you _need?”_

“Keep your voice down!” Dorian snapped. His eyes flickered towards the fire. Cole preoccupied the Inquisitor with his interest in their dinner. The Inquisitor tried to stop him from messing with the spices in their dinner. “Don’t you think it’s too convenient?”

“Shite on that!” Sera crossed her arms. “What’s some badie gonna do anyways?” She deepened her voice. “‘Ha, ha! Piss on you! You fell for it! I’m not your bloody brother!’ He’s gonna know when he sees him. Ain’t gonna be able to trick him with _that._ ”

“It’s about _hope,_ Sera,” Dorian grumbled. He shook a piece of parchment at her. “Why set him up for something and then crush him all over again?”

“Well it’s not like you’re plan on tellin’ him his brother’s alive! You just gotta tell ‘im what you told me.” Sera shook her head with a sigh. “You’re not protecting him. Sure he acts all big an’ strong, good on you for seeing through _that_ shite. But he is strong. Gotta be strong somehow to act _that_ hard-arsed.” She looked Dorian over and her voice softened. “He needs to trust someone, got it? He gots you. Tits on that luck.”

“Well if you’re going to have anyone, I’m an _incredible_ someone to have,” Dorian said, lips curving.

“Right.” Sera rolled her eyes. “You get what I’m saying, right? You were there--what happened with the Inquisistuffs. You can’t do that to him, too.”

“Right.” Dorian shook his head. “It saddens me to say it, but you’re right.”

“Not all the smart ones wipe their arses with gold silk,” Sera said with a grin.

“Oh thank goodness, I thought I’d lost that title when I left home.” Dorian gathered the papers and bound them back up. “Is that really all you came over for?”

A blush whispered on Sera’s cheekbones and she frowned. “You’re not the only poor shite that has a heart for him.” Her face screwed up. “Not the way _you_ have a heart for ‘im. Bleh.”

“I’ve no idea what you could mean,” Dorian said with a sly smile. He stood. “Well… thank you, Sera.”

She shrugged. “We’re all looking out for him. And he thinks it’s the other way around.”

“Stop now, Sera, or I might begin to think you’re clever.” Dorian gave a small wave and started towards the fire. He heard Sera snort behind him.

A breeze passed over the camp, shaking the tents. Rocks crunched underneath his boots, marking his progress back towards the fire. Lavellan held a hand up to the flames, holding his collar closed with the other. He lost a lot of girth outside of his armor. Dorian half wondered if the wind blew right through him.

The smell of dinner wrapped around the camp. The rich stew bubbled in a pot that Cole stirred, his head tilted and hands curious. Even if the man’s eyes didn’t move, Dorian felt his attention shift around him. Like an uncomfortable embrace of an estranged uncle.

“Dorian,” Lavellan said. He motioned beside him on blanket.

“Good day.” Dorian dipped his head towards him. “I was meaning to talk to you. I’ve read all the journals. They’re back in order now.” He glanced the camp. Vivienne cared for her armor, drying out the leather with magic. Blackwall and the Iron Bull crowded around a small game of cards. “If you would like to go for a walk?” Dorian asked.

Lavellan followed his gaze. He hesitated. “No. If I go too far from the fire, I’ll possibly freeze.” He gave Dorian a small smile. “It’s alright.”

Dorian dipped his voice into suggestion, “I can think of a few methods to warm you.”

“Certainly not in the open spaces of the plains, I presume?” Vivienne clipped, eyes narrowed at a stain on her cloth.

A deep blush settled on Lavellan’s cheeks and he shook his head. The corner of his lips twitched. “Dorian,” he chided. Sunlight caught his eyes, warming the green sheen into gold. Gold fit Lavellan the way flowers fit trees; unnecessary yet bewitching.

“Yes?” Dorian lifted a brow, pleased. His lips curled.

“Just sit down.” Lavellan pointed beside him.

“Oh! This is interesting. An _order,”_ Dorian teased, humor tickling his lungs. He settled down beside Lavellan. Their thighs pressed together. “Are you enjoying the clear weather?”

Lavellan leaned towards him with a sigh, ducking his head. “It’s better than rain.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “I don’t mind rain, but it gets cold after a while.” He cupped his hands over his mouth. Magic pressed around them and heat sprinkled onto the back of Dorian’s neck. “You said you found something?”

 

* * *

 

 

Sunlight pressed down on the top of his head, warming the roots of his hair. Cyrlen tipped his head back and closed his eyes, soaking in the sun’s gentle touch. He missed warmer weather, and laying on his back in the meadows with the gentle halla grazing around him. A long breath left his lungs. His stomach twisted.

Prickles stung his lungs and poisoned the air. He dropped his head. The horse underneath him paused and stole a snack from a bush before trailing after the others. He reached down and patted the mare’s neck.

Restlessness plagued his legs and agitated his muscles. He wanted to shake the reins and drive the horse into the ground. To watch the distance transform the scenery. He needed to feel the progress back towards Skyhold, rather than sit through it.

He sighed and eyed the dirt path underneath the horse’s hooves. Jogging alongside the horses might chase away the jitters that had dug into his nerves.

“Everything okay there, Boss?” the Iron Bull asked. A slow smile rolled onto his lips. “Rethinking that offer of mine?”

Cyrlen cast him a curious glance. “Offer?” he echoed. “What offer?”

A short laugh erupted from Dorian. He cast Cyrlen a tickled glance. “Decided sword or sheath yet?”

“ _What?_ ” Sera blurted.

“I-?” Cyrlen’s face stretched and his breath cut from his lungs. Heat swarmed over him as he shook his head. “We’re not bringing this up again.”

“What?” Sera scrunched up her nose.

“Nothing!” Cyrlen wiped a hand over his face and let out a long breath. He fell forward and hid his face into the mare’s mane. The Iron Bull let out a deep, rumbling laugh while Dorian giggled with his head down. “You two are impossible,” Cyrlen said with a sigh.

“I didn’t start it.” Dorian pointed out.

“Oh, _ew!”_ Sera scrunched her nose.

“I don’t get it…” Cole murmured.

“One day, kid,” the Iron Bull said with a grin. “Boss here will explain it to you.”

“That would be a sight.” The corner of Dorian’s lips curled. “Stammering his way through it all.”

“I…” Cyrlen started and paused. He shook his head. “I _have_ before.”

“You don’t say?” Dorian gave him a surprised glance.

Cyrlen breathed in a deep breath through his nose, flooding his lungs with the sharp air. “Yes.” Cheeks burning, he swallowed. “I had to explain things to my brother.” His brow folded. “I at first tried explaining it in a roundabout way-”

“This is going to be good,” the Iron Bull interrupted, laughter shaking his voice.

“-and… I am not giving _details._ ” Cyrlen sputtered. “Moving on, he didn’t understand.” He winced at the memory. “I thought he was on the same page, and he thought he was. But we were reading _entirely_ different books.”

“Took the birds and bees for real then?” Sera cackled.

“I’m imagining this entire exchange,” Dorian said, voice thick and bubbling with chuckles. “His brother’s nodding eagerly while our dear Herald is stammering and blushing through the entire thing. His brother’s absolutely confused, ‘Why is he so embarrassed about wanting to play with staffs?’”

“D-Dorian!” Cyrlen exclaimed.

The Iron Bull rolled his head back and roared laughter.

A sly smirk curled on the edge of Dorian’s lips. He sat back, smug. “You’re very predictable.”

“Or do you just know me too well?” Cyrlen shot back, witholding a smile.

“Bleh! Cornflower’s got big eyes for Ser Handsome Bottom again!” Sera shouted.

“E-Excuse me!” Cyrlen cried. He whirled to give Sera an exasperated glance. “This… I-It’s a _conversation_!”

“Conversation my arse!” Sera lifted her chin. A wicked grin spread across her lips. “Save the arse-licking for the tent!”

“Or better yet, back at Skyhold where there are stone walls between you and the next bloke,” Blackwall murmured. He cast a glance over his shoulder, raising a brow. “They were doing that all the way down to the rift.”

“We-” Cyrlen started, his cheeks warming. “I-! That…!”

“‘I wonder if he can hear my breath catch when his shoulder brushes mine.’” Cole appeared beside Cyrlen, his hand petting the mare’s neck. His hat tipped backwards and two curious eyes appeared. “‘When he laughs the stone melts away and leaves something beautiful. Like sunlight hitting the surface of a lake, he glitters. He smiles more often. I’m not sure if it’s because of me. But I want it to be. If I get him to smile wide enough, I might catch his chipped tooth again.’”

Cyrlen’s heart stopped. All laughter and voices died. He dragged his eyes towards Dorian.

A blush painted the man’s cheeks, bright and brilliant. Jaw clenched, he narrowed his eyes on Cole, as if a simple glare could make the hat keep his mouth shut. His eyes hesitated and lifted towards Cyrlen.

Heat rose from Cyrlen’s toes and settled on his cheekbones.

“Seems as if our local privacy demolisher has hit once again and halted all conversation,” Dorian said, voice thin. His lips curled into a ghost of a smile.

“You…” Cyrlen’s voice disappeared. He swallowed. “You noticed the tooth?”

Dorian looked ahead of him. He nodded, full of thought. “Yes. I was curious about it.”

“I… see,” Cyrlen whispered, unable to speak any louder.

“It’s kind of poetic,” the Iron Bull thought aloud. “You really thought of that? ‘Like sunlight hitting the surface of a lake.’”

“The topic is put to a close.” Cyrlen rushed the words. _Does he think of me like that often?_

“Why don’t you just ask him?” Cole glanced up at him. “He won’t mind.”

“ _Cole,_ ” Cyrlen murmured. “Topic is closed. Later.”

“Later, indeed.” Dorian watched him out of the corner of his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

They were arguing. Maeron stared down at his hands. How was it possible to feel his heart everywhere? He felt it beat in the palm of his hands, heard it in his ears. It fed an anxious knot that tightened around his ribs and lungs and tied off the end of his throat. _What am I doing here?_

The Seeker cast him another glance. Her eyes were sharp, piercing underneath his skin and into his memories. He swallowed and dropped his gaze.

She held up a hand to the others and walked back to him.

A deep breath spilled into Maeron’s lungs. His fingers twitched. He reached up and pushed his fingers through his hair before tugging on his earlobe. “You hail from Clan Lavellan,” the Seeker repeated. “You’re a mage. Did you have any siblings?”

Maeron closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. “As I stated before, I have an older-” His breath tasted of acid. “ _Had_ an older brother. Cyrlen Dheamon Lavellan. He was the first of Clan Lavellan, before we both went to the Conclave to keep an eye over human matters.”

“The only one to have survived the Conclave was the Herald.” The Seeker’s boots tapped against the stone floor as she walked around him. Her armor rustled from the movement.

“Except those not within the range of the blast,” Maeron said, voice falling thin. “My brother left me alone after he saw something suspicious…” His throat clogged.

_“I’ll be right back,”_ his brother had promised him. It was the one and only promise Cyrlen had ever broken.

Maeron opened his eyes. The room had dissolved into a blur. He tried to swallow, his throat closing. “He’s dead,” he said through his teeth. Heat fell around his face and burned his eyes. “My brother’s dead and I haven’t been apart of Clan Lavellan for over a year.” He took in a small, desperate breath, shaking his head. “I don’t know what this is about but I haven’t done _anything._ I’ve been working for the Inquisition--I’ve never switched loyalties!”

“How did you survive?” The Seeker appeared in front of him, hand slamming down onto the armrest of his seat.

“I _left!”_ Maeron shouted. “I left! Someone had stolen my amulet and so I searched for them. I chased someone away from the Conclave and when I caught them… the amulet wasn’t there. And then there was an explosion…” His voice broke and he dropped his head into his hands, a thin breath slipping from his throat.

“Cassandra, that’s enough,” the Commander said.

“I’m done. I believe him.”

The room stilled with those three words. Maeron curled and tried to swallow down the tears. They spilled over, like a dam waiting to burst. The walls had been cracking for a while. A hand settled on his shoulder. Maeron choked on a breath and peeked up between his fingers. The Seeker watched him with a whisper of sympathy tainting her face. “From afar you look like him. You hold his mannerisms and I can see how others were mistaken. But up close you’re very different.”

“What?” Maeron asked, voice cracking.

“We had to be sure.” The Seeker leaned back. “Maeron, your brother is alive.”

Air slid away from him. He stared up at the Seeker, disbelief clawing through him. Shaking his head, he said, “You said only the Herald survived.”

The Seeker stood, her arms crossing. She raised a single brow.

 

* * *

 

 

Embers from the fire fought against the darkness of the night. Lavellan crouched down in front of it, his hands soaking in the last murmurs of warmth. Dorian slipped from the tent. He stole a large log and placed it beside the Herald. “It’s a cold night,” he offered as he sat down on the log with care.

“It’s often a cold night.” The edge of Lavellan’s lips curled. “We’ll reach Skyhold tomorrow.”

“Is that why you’re out here and not resting?” Dorian lifted a brow, his lips curling. “Shall we add another log to the fire?”

Lavellan hesitated. “I don’t know. Dawn will be coming soon enough. You should get some rest.” His eyes lifted to him. “Or are you saving it for your bed?”

Humor filled Dorian’s eyes. “As soon as we reach Skyhold I’m stripping myself and finding the nearest bath to soak into.”

A short laugh rumbled from Lavellan. His eyes danced in the low light. “Hopefully you’re near a bath when we’re there.”

“Don’t think you’d enjoy the show?” Dorian taunted.

Lavellan lost a breath. He stared at Dorian for a few moments before his gaze dropped back towards the embers. The orange light pressed against his skin, turning his eyes into soft orange lights. “What… are we doing, Dorian?” he whispered.

“I am not quite sure what you mean, specifically. At the moment we’re enjoying another night by the fire.” Dorian’s cheeks warmed.

“You…” Lavellan pinched his earlobe in thought, and then ran his hand over the back of his neck. “I suppose… _us._ Between us. We’re… awfully friendly.”

“The flirting? You blushing and swooning because of my charm?” Dorian winked. A quiet smile pressed Lavellan’s lips. He stared down at his hands, fiddling with a loose thread. Dorian swallowed, his eyes falling back to the embers. “We could put a halt to all of this, if it would make you more comfortable.”

Lavellan ducked his chin.

A breeze picked up, pushing snow through the air. Flakes died on his skin and evaporated before they even touched the embers. Dorian pressed his lips into a thin line. A heavy weight pressed down onto his lungs. He allowed the sky to distract him. Snow reflected the light of the moon and colored the night a wine-stained satin. His eyes lowered to the rolling snow around them. Mountains pressed against the sky, dark giants. He breathed in. It reminded him of the trek towards Skyhold and the numbing pain that followed it—the Herald’s supposed death.

“Is… is there an ‘or’ to that…?” Lavellan spoke, his voice breaking off his tongue. A blush ravaged his cheeks, and he had ducked his head into his shoulders. He cast a shy glance towards Dorian.

A whisper of relief warmed through Dorian. His lips curled. “ _Or_ we could let it progress naturally. Let it define itself.”

Lavellan managed a jerky nod. “Then… let’s do that. If… That is, if you don’t mind?” He winced, glancing towards Dorian.

“I certainly don’t mind.” Dorian smiled. He reached out a hand. “You needn’t be so embarrassed.”

A smile lit Lavellan. He took Dorian’s hand and leaned closer to him. Their fingers entwined. “Stop teasing me.”

“If I did, then most of the fun I have throughout a day would drastically fall,” Dorian said with a mischievous smile. His heart warmed, like someone put a heating spell around it. “You know…” Coals lit his cheeks. “You never formally introduced yourself to me.”

Surprise lifted Lavellan’s brows. “Really? Oh.” He frowned at the fire. “I suppose I’m just so used to everyone already knowing.” The wind shook past them. He edged closer to Dorian, pulling his tunic up around his cheeks. “Did it bother you?”

“No. Not really.” Dorian pushed a heating spell over their hands as he tried to ignore his sputtering heartbeat. _Don’t you dare sound like a buffoon._ “I just found it quite humorous.”

“Well.” Lavellan pulled his hand away from Dorian. He pushed himself up onto his knees and held out his hand between them. “Hello, Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. My name is Cyrlen of Dheamon, most recently of Clan Lavellan.”

Dorian grinned and held his breath. He replayed the name in his head, once, then twice. _Seer-len._ “Cyrlen of Dheamon, most recently of Clan Lavellan,” Dorian said, mouth rolling over the syllables. “I’m very enchanted to meet you.” His hand wrapped around Cyrlen’s. He shook it, smile warming.

A small breath startled from Cyrlen. His lips spread with a warm smile. “I think that’s the first time you’ve said my name, Dorian.”

“Cyrlen. I don’t think I’ve ever told you, but it’s a brilliant name. Lyrical.” Dorian pulled their hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles, eyes glittering. “I’m curious of the ‘Dheamon’ addition.”

Smiling, Cyrlen ducked his head. “Don’t worry too much about that one.” He paused for a moment, brows falling together. His eyes snapped up to Dorian’s. “Dorian.”

“Cyrlen.”

“Dorian,” Cyrlen chimed, his lips curving into a brilliant smile. He turned boyish, his eyes glittering with humor. “Do you think that, _perhaps,_ you might not have _known_ -”

“Shush! Do you hear that?” Dorian turned from him and searched the horizon. Embarrassment flooded his cheeks and twisted his stomach.

“Dorian,” Cyrlen said, laughter filling his throat.

“I said _quiet._ I hear something!” Dorian looked around them, squinting at the empty and silent horizon.

“Is it your pride crumbling? Because for _how many months,_ you just _couldn’t_ -”

Dorian whipped back to Cyrlen and shot a whisper of cold up his arm. “I said _quiet._ ”

A small yelp left the Herald. He leaned and hid his face in Dorian’s side, laughter filling his throat. “Don’t! The others will wake!” He giggled. “Dorian! I can’t _believe-_ ”

“We’re not discussing this,” Dorian hissed through his teeth.

Cyrlen gasped for air through his giggles.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sun beamed down at the gravel as Cyrlen swung off his horse. A storm of anxiety ravaged his insides, twisting his stomach and thinning the air. He slipped away from the mare and through the bustle of people who were to untack the horses.

Dorian strode through the crowd and found Cyrlen by the steps. His eyes narrowed on him with a small quirk pulling the edge of his lips. “Perhaps you can finally get a good night’s rest,” he greeted.

“Doubtful.” Cyrlen took in a deep breath. “I suppose we should track down this…” His voice died. Dorian stared at something behind his shoulder. He turned and spotted Cassandra standing on the stairs, her arms crossed and her face tight. “She doesn’t look happy.”

“She can look happy?” Dorian asked with a smirk.

Cyrlen bit back a smile and started up the stairs.

Skyhold bestirred around them, chock-full of people rushing around them. Its energy fed into Cyrlen, filling the beast of anxiety inside of him. He reached Cassandra’s step. She turned and started to lead him up to the courtyard. Her words were sharp and precise, “How did things turn out with our informant?”

“That will take a bit to explain. I’ve written a great deal of it out and will deliver the reports to all of you.” Cyrlen stepped up beside her. “Everything else went smooth enough. We still haven’t been able to pinpoint the dragon.”

“Much to Bull’s disappointment, I’m sure.” Cassandra smirked lightly. Something weighed down her face. A small breath filled her and she dropped her eyes. “Inquisitor, there’s something you should know… and… I think it would be better to just show you.

“Is this something I should _not_ tag along, then?” Dorian asked.

Cassandra shot him a glare. “Since you two are close, I don’t see any problem.”

“Cass,” Cyrlen said, his brows folding. “What is it?”

Her jaw set. She lead them across the courtyard and straight up the stairs towards the main hall. “I think it’s best you saw.”

Cyrlen gave Dorian a bewildered glance. With a small smile, Dorian grasped his hand and gently squeezed warmth up his arm. Letting out a breath, Cyrlen pushed through into the main hall. Silence pressed down onto the space. The usual excited energy had toned down to muttering. Cyrlen clutched onto Dorian’s hand.

They stepped carefully through the main hall. Building projects had progressed at an exponential rate, transforming the hall. Josephine had decorated it with grand fabrics, dressing up the usually drab room. Light rained in through stained glass windows and bounced off the new fabrics. It livened everything.

Cassandra paused by the door that lead to Cyrlen’s quarters. She turned to him and motioned. “There’s someone waiting to see you.”

His heart jumped in his throat. He looked between her and Dorian, stomach twisting. Dorian loosened his hold. Losing his breath, Cyrlen turned to him.

“I’ll be but a few steps away,” Dorian promised. He nodded towards the door. “Go on.”

Cyrlen drew in a tense breath and pushed through the doorway. Crows greeted him as he pushed up the stairs, his hands shaking. His progress echoed around him, the sound of boots clapping against stone. He licked his lips.

The stairwell smelled unfamiliar. Tight and dense with dust and still air. Cyrlen reached the top step. His heart rattled in his chest like a bird caught by a rope.

A figure stood by one of the windows, staring out at the horizon. The light created a halo around him, highlighting a mop of mousy-brown hair that sat atop his hair. Cyrlen blinked against a choking wave of tears. “Been counting long?”

The figure whirled around. Wide green eyes settled on him. Maeron’s mouth flopped open and shut. He sputtered for breath.

Cyrlen stepped forward.

“You have _so much_ to make up for,” Maeron said, his voice dissolving. He pushed away from the window and rushed across the room. His breath broke into a sob and he threw himself at Cyrlen. The two stumbled backwards and slammed into a wall. Cyrlen strangled out a laugh, his arms wrapping tightly around his brother. Tears sprouted in the corners of his eyes with force. Maeron let out a weak noise, his shoulders shaking. Voice strained, he whispered, “You’ve been alive all this time, you big-eared _idiot._ ”

Cyrlen laughed, tears sliding down his cheeks. “ _I’m_ the idiot?” He pushed Maeron back an inch and grasped his head. He pushed his fingers through Maeron’s hair and pinched his ear. His breath drowned in half-sob. “Where have you _been_?” He pressed a rough kiss to Maeron’s temple. “You’ve lost a lot of baby-fat.” His arms wrapped around Maeron’s head and trapped him to his chest.

His brother laughed against his breast and shook his head. “Shut up. You of all people aren’t allowed...” The laugh broke. His hands clutched onto Cyrlen, pulling him close like a child embraced a safety blanket. “You’re not allowed to be mean right now…” Tears drained from his eyes and rattled his shoulders, breaking up his breaths.

Clenching his jaw, Cyrlen rubbed circles into his back. He closed his eyes shut. “I can’t believe you’re alive. Mae…” His lips pulled into a watery grin. “Creators, _Mae._ Maeron…” He let out a congested breath.

His brother leaked a laugh. “Yes? I’m here.”

“I know.” Cyrlen smiled, his cheeks hurting. Relief cut through him, spilling out into his bones. He held the back of his brother’s head, holding him close. “I _know._ ”

 


End file.
